


Like a Prayer

by MarilynMunster



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: American Revolution, F/M, Friendship/Love, PTSD, Trauma, Triumph Over Pain, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarilynMunster/pseuds/MarilynMunster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor was aided by a prostitute to help him escape during the Boston Massacre years ago. Now a man, he returns to Boston to find her singing in a tavern. He sparks life in the overused woman with his blunt naïveté and disinterest in her services. Little does she know, her friendship during his battle becomes his saving grace. OC modeled after Marilyn Monroe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Introduction**

_The Assassin_

_"Thou shalt not kill"_

He was orphaned at the tender age of ten, watching his mother burn in the merciless flames. He swore to hunt down the man responsible, and thieve him of his very life. Many years later, with a change of his name and the hard training from a master assassin, he earned his entry into the Brotherhood of Assassins. These assassins are sworn to strike down the opposing brotherhood of corruption, the Templars. Split between heritages and identities alike, he fights for one purpose: freedom. In this purpose, he masquerades as a Reaper in a white coat, collecting the lives of opposing men with the piercing of a hidden blade through their beating hearts. Is this considered murder? Yes. Are these murders for the greater good? Yes. Was Ratonhnhake:ton, or Connor, sure of himself and the destiny that lay before him? Certainly not.

_The Prostitute_

_"Thou shalt not commit adultery"_

"You are tainted! I was never meant to give birth to you!" And with that said, her mother attempted to assault her illegitimate child. Escaping the turmoil of her mother's mental illness, she ran away at the age of twelve to seek a sanctuary. Somewhere, anywhere. She did not care where. Finding her bundled up little body in the last pew of a church, a sympathetic man had taken her in to his home when attending the said church for a weekly confession. This ended up not being her sanctuary. She was kicked out into the street years later by the man's wife when accused of seducing her husband. In actuality, it was he who had committed adultery. She had refused to submit after he sexually assaulted her behind a closed door. From a street girl to Boston's top prostitute, MaryLynn sacrificed her body to keep a roof over her head. Despite sleeping with married and single men whose names and faces she could not recall, she kept her crucifix close to her heart, praying for a sanctuary...maybe even for someone...to grant her peace.

When these two people meet in the midst of a riot, a bond, surpassing both friendship and romance, begins to blossom.

A sanctuary in the form of flesh and blood is granted to the overused woman, while the gentle understanding and the passion of a woman becomes the saving grace for the Reaper in a white coat.

Though this bond was meant to be, it was never meant to last. Like a prayer, the pair was strong throughout the years, only to end like the final breath when the time came.

This is a collection of the moments between Ratohnhake:ton (a.k.a. Connor) and MaryLynn Mortenson.


	2. Sweet Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn Mortenson, Madame and The Maverick brothel.
> 
> _Italics:_ Sentences in italics indicate Connor thinking/speaking in his native tongue. This will apply to future chapters as well.
> 
> **Warning:** Rape scene towards end of this chapter.

_Boston, March 1770_

Rocks were projected like silver bullets from the riotous crowds. They've had enough of being whipped around like ragged dogs by the British soldiers and the unseen force that was King George II. As wads of saliva were spat on the ground the British "red coats" stood upon, a dozen or so of the said guards thrust collections of angry colonials against walls. Their bodies collided and clashed, backs crackling against the bricks as they shoved forward, trying to be freed of the red coats. Few people were able to escape this entrapment, slithering their way out of the entanglement of limbs. One of them ran into the alleyway away from King's Street, struggling to ease the violent thrashing of her heart.

A young woman, on the verge of turning twenty-one years of age, grasps at her chest as she struggles to breathe. Stumbling over her numb feet, she slowly makes her way to a fairly quiet section of the alleyway, her unoccupied hand shaking as it anchored her weight against the brick wall of a building. The pounding of her heart, the rush of thick blood pumping through her veins was deafening as she leaned her back against the wall.

Flashbacks of crowds of people bearing their teeth in fury, tumultuous over the ongoing mistreatment from the red coats at the Charter House. These recent moments all danced wildly before her mind's eye. The uproar was too much for her senses. To be entrapped between the bodies of strangers and a brick wall was pure torture. Even an inch of movement was not permitted by the thrusting arms of the red coats and colonials alike. A wave of panic had given her enough adrenaline to push through the bodies, freeing herself. Dear Lord, she thought she would die of fear in that pit of sweating bodies! The crying of scared children was the last straw to escalate her peaking anxiety. A sense of no escape in a pool of bodies terrified MaryLynn into yet another episode of panic ******.

"Ea-ease me, Lord," the young woman sputtered, clutching her wool handkerchief tightly in a small fist.

As soon as the rhythm of her breathing stabilized, the high-pitched wheezing coming to a stop, a shout from a nearby rooftop had captured her attention. Whipping her head towards the source, the young woman came to find a man in a blue coat aiming his musket down at the crowds below. 'Wait...he is about to shoot the people below! They are innocent!' Her heart threatened to quicken once more, feeling helpless as she stood in the snow. Before she could gasp aloud, a Native boy appeared like a phantom in animal skins behind the man, slitting his throat with what appeared to be a weapon resembling a hatchet. Covering her gaping mouth with both palms, she watches the scene unfold from below.

She mumbles with utter melancholy, "What has this land come to?"

"Your plot is ended!" the Native boy seethed, grabbing the man by the collar of his navy blue coat.

Chuckling, the man replies in a hoarse voice, his eyes glinting with mischief, "Not...quite."

Another shot of a firearm shatters the silence and noise. However, neither man nor boy was struck down. It came from another source that MaryLynn could not see. With the uprising tenors of screams, a hideous composition of gun shots are set off, the echo reverberating forever in her mind. She knew that innocents met their death. At least the Native boy tried to stop this evil..

**+++++**

An accusatory point of an index finger withheld more power than any human could imagine.

Slander.

Betrayal.

Connor feared that he might collapse over the rooftop with the storm of emotions in his belly. In the depths of his heart, the heart of a child and a fighter alike, he silently prayed that his own father would recognize him and save him.

Alas, it was not to be, signified by a pointed index finger in his direction.

He watched as several people were shot to death on the street, women and children howling with cries. His heart stopped beating in that moment. His dark eyes met the smirk of Charles Lee, who stood atop a roof from across the way. The smoking pistol in his hand seemed to mock Connor as its blsck smoke permeated proudly into the air. 'Curse you, Charles Lee!' his thoughts seethed. Yet again, he was unable to save people from this horrid man.

There was no time for nursing emotions. He had to disappear from the eyes of the red coats, or else the lips of their bullets would surely kiss him goodbye. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Connor leaps down to the ground in a section of fenced-in farm animals and haystacks. He dashes, leaping over fences as he disappeared into the alleyway.

He lost the red coats for a short while. It would not be long before they track him down. Unexpectedly, he bumps into another body; the body of a young woman. He knocks her down to the snow by accident. No! No, this was NOT the time to cause more trouble! He helps her up quickly by the forearm, barely feeling her limbs due to her excessive layers of clothing.

"S-sorry, miss," he stutters bashfully.

"I am fine," she assures him, her voice a breathy soprano.

She looks up at the tall boy, her blue eyes widening with shock. She realizes that he was the Native boy from the rooftop just moments ago! She saw him. It was not he who was to blame for the shooting. She knew what she saw. Her heart could not take any more insanity. Oh my, there was blood…Oh dear, the nauseating sight of blood on his clothes. She swallowed hard, trying her best to remain in the moment.

"Y-you are that boy...that Native boy."

"Shh!" he hushed forcefully, grabbing hold of her hands. "Please, do not reveal my presence!"

"N-no, you misunderstand. I saw what truly happened."

He is hesitant, releasing his hold on the young woman. He backtracks against the brick wall, his body stiffening.

"I saw you," she reiterates. "I know of your innocence."

Glancing over her appearance, he figured that the woman was young, but her speech and demeanor were much more mature than he. She couldn't have been an adolescent like himself. Her cheeks were not plump like a young girl, but molded delicately to reveal high cheekbones. Her face was pleasant to the eye, with reddened cheeks and golden curls poking out of the maroon handkerchief wrapped around her head and shoulders.

"Who are you?" he questions, his eyes darkening with threat, for beauty meant nothing to him in this moment.

"No time for pleasantries," she hushed the boy, a hand cupping along the side of her mouth to amplify the whisper.

She advances towards him, and pulls him by the forearm to a nearby haystack.

"M-miss, their footsteps!" he whispers frantically, breaking free from her small hand. "I hear them coming! What are you-?"

"Hide in that stack. I'll steer them away."

"But-"

"Trust me!"

Figuring that concealing himself immediately would be wise, the Native boy dives into the haystack, vanishing with just a swift movement. It was not a moment too soon before four men dressed in red coats came rustling about, seeking out the boy with their narrowed, predatory eyes.

"Where has the bastard gone?"

"We just had him!"

"Oh my!" the young woman gasped, feigning a distressed emotion. "Thank goodness you've come!"

One of the men in red finally took note of the young woman, addressing her in a hastened fashion.

"Miss, calm yourself. We are seeking out the boy responsible for the shooting. Have you seen a Native boy pass by here?"

In a dramatic fashion, the young woman fanned out fingers and placed them across her cheeks, her blue eyes wide.

"Oh sir, I-I saw him run down that way!" she pointed towards a direction that would surely take the red coats far away from here. "I didn't know wh-what to do, I-I was so frightened!"

"Miss, calm down. We'll capture the Native bastard and all will be fine."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you, sir," she whispered in a breathy voice, her fingers leaving her face to brush along the man's forearm.

The said man in red cleared his throat and bid MaryLynn goodbye as he and his men dashed away. Once the group of men disappeared behind the corner of the brick building, the young woman listened in for faded footsteps. She then stuck a hand into the hay stack to seek out her new accomplice. Before she could touch him, the Native boy popped out, startling her.

"You sent them away," he spoke as a statement rather than an inquiry, brushing off stalks of hay from his animal skin attire. "Why?"

She dismissed his question, deeming it not the most opportune time to explain herself.

"Go in the opposite direction in which they went," she instructed, indicating with an index finger where the red coats had gone. "This will at least grant you more time to escape."

"Why did you help me?" he demanded once more, bewildered by her kindness.

"You are against British authority, yes?"

He nods. He knew had to refrain from discussing the clandestine Assassin brotherhood.

"That's all I need to know," she smiles softly, pulling her wool handkerchief tighter around her face for warmth.

The Native boy was lovely. His full cheeks and wide eyes were precious. The freckles splattered across his cheeks had tickled her the most. The people of Boston would speak of his people's savagery, but she saw nothing of the sort. He was so awkward in his demeanor, so unsure of himself despite his attempt at confidence.

He barely met her eyes, looking away as he fumbled with his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched forward. And yet, she found herself to be warmed by this purity. She urges him to leave immediately. Before he departs, she stands on the tips of her toes to match his height, planting a light peck on his cheek.

"Good luck," she whispers.

He flushes furiously in response to the young woman's affection. Without knowing how to return the affection, he resorts to running away, climbing up the brick wall and window panes with ease. Little did she know, in the shadows some several feet away stood Charles Lee, watching the whole scene unfold before him.

The man snarled, his mustache tickling his thin lips. A treacherous woman helping that piece of garbage? Absurd! That little whore. He had seen her before. She was affiliated with that red hair Scottish woman at brothel. A wicked smirk graced his lips, his mustache framing the sickening expression. The young whore had to learn her lesson; learn whose side truly reigned over her insignificant existence.

Before the blonde woman could depart from the alley, she was stopped cold in her tracks. Charles towered over her, her heels digging into the snow. She fought her limbs to cease their shaking. 'Never let a man see your fear,' she recited in her mind.

"I have seen what you've done. You helped the Native boy escape," Charles stated, looking the woman up and down with his beady black eyes.

"Please, sir," she begged, holding up her palms in a gesture of surrender. "I-I was only- Aahh!"

He thrashed her up against the brick wall, his torso pressed up uncomfortably against her body.

"I know what you are," he growls, smoke ribbons of the cold lacing his words. "You wenches are all alike. That boy is a target! A sweet face comes along, and you coo and sigh."

"You don't understand!"

He speaks no more, sliding his hand up her petticoat and long skirt. She attempts to scream for help, but his free hand covers it, his palm sweaty and tasting like copper. He invaded her inner thighs with his skin-cracked fingers, pulling down her pantaloons with force. Her frightened squeals fought to escape the confines of his palm. She could hear the popping of buttons as he freed himself, the hand returning to her inner thighs, seeking out her entrance with his manhood in hand. Her eyes welled with tears once he penetrated her.

His act immediately stopped, a look of disgust contorting his greasy face.

Blood had spilled from her womanhood, staining both his white breeches and her undergarments.

"Blasted woman!" he spits, disgusted by the evident menses.

He pulls out of her entrance, shoving her down to the snow. She openly weeps, pulling up her pantaloons with shaking hands. Her blonde curls poked through her disheveled shawl, the damp hair matted against her cheeks and forehead. The rag that was plugged up her vaginal canal remained inside her. She was humiliated, the blood trickling down her legs, staining her lovely petticoat and pantaloons. Disgusted enough with the young woman's monthly shedding of blood, he quickly abandoned her, removing his maroon coat to cover the blood stain on his creme colored breeches. He was at least thankful that the young woman would not be bearing his bastard child.

The woman whooped and cried into the sleeve of her coat, utterly humiliated and dressed in her own blood. For what seemed like an eternity, she finally attempted to pull up her stained undergarments, forcing her shaking limbs to straighten up.

It would be a long walk back to the brothel in this state. At least she wouldn't be pregnant. 'Lord, give me strength. Please...'

She returned an hour later to the two-story house that was the brothel, The Maverick. The candlelight glowed gold from the window glass. Her knees buckled, threatening to give way to the cobblestone street. She refused their wish, the red door of the brothel nearly glowing in her blurred vision. Her trembling hand turned the rusted knob. She moaned at the striking pain in her womanhood, biting into her lower lip.

Stumbling into the entrance hall, a couple of women gasp aloud at the sight of blood drenching the young woman's lower half. The women rush to aid their sister-in-business.

"MaryLynn, what happened?!"

"Who did this?!"

"Where did this happen?"

The questions overwhelmed her greatly, causing her breath to quicken rapidly. Her throat threatened to close, her eyes bulging with tears. 'Not another episode!'

"Alrigh', alrigh'! Back away, girls!"

A curvy woman with bundled red hair pulled her girls away from the panicking blonde woman on the floor. The blood, the red face, the paralyzing fear. The older woman knew exactly what had happened. She shook her head solemnly, helping the bleeding young woman up.

"It's alrigh', MaryLynn. I'm here, love," she coos, her voice a gentle alto.

The young woman clings to the woman, simply known as "Madame." Not one of The Maverick's girls knew of the Scottish woman's real name, actually. Rather odd. The plump forearm served as the young woman's only crutch, both physically and emotionally. Escorting her slowly up the staircase, Madame looks over her shoulder to the pair of dolled-up girls below.

"Heat some water an' fetch me some clean rags an' clothes."

The pair stood befuddled, still shocked by the scene.

"Now, damnit! Don' just stan' there like dimwits!" she shouted, the feisty tone returning to her voice.

Ten minutes later, with hot water and fresh supplies, Madame cleaned MaryLynn up in her small bedroom. The water in the copper basin was a deep scarlet from the amount of times blood-drenched rags were dipped. The young woman had not said a word throughout the cleaning, refusing to look at the older woman. Her face had been devoid of emotion, staring off into the empty air. She was non-responsive.

Madame respected her act of silence. In her heyday, Madame was no stranger to such dreadful things. Disgust. Shame. Humiliation. No one would wish to speak of those emotions shortly after a violation such as this. Once she dressed MaryLynn in fresh undergarments of pantaloons and a square-collared bodice made of cotton, the older woman spoke up as she brought MaryLynn to the bed.

"Ay," she sighs aloud. "I'm sorry tha' it had to happen to you, dear."

MaryLynn finally spoke, her glazed eyes slowly retrieving a human essence.

"I try _so hard_ to stay safe."

Madame sighed, knowing all too well that no one could control everything in life. She briefly knew of MaryLynn's abuse several years ago. It was times like this that the Scottish woman desired to take part in manslaughter, to annihilate every man that ever hurt a woman, whether they be with words or fists or their damn genitals. Her tone became morose, deep as she continued to speak. The wisdom that came with age foretold Madame that no such thing would ever stop violence against women.

"Try as you migh', dearie. Sadly, things like this happen, even when we don' ask for it."

"He saw me help this Native boy," the young woman rasped, slowly pulling the blankets over her body.

"Who is 'he,' love?"

"Lee...Charles Lee did this to me."

"Connivin' insect," Madame spat aloud, mentally condemning the man to hell. "This was over some Native boy? This is wha' this is over?! For Christ's sake-"

"Please, Madame!" MaryLynn retaliated as she sat up quickly, only to regret the pain in her lower stomach that came with the motion. "The boy, he is against the British! He said that he was going to stop them, the red coats. I had to help him."

"You don' listen to a boy, silly girl! He's probably scared, shakin' in his bear skins. Wait, when you say 'boy,' do you mean tha' his is a child or an adolescen'?"

"He's not a child," MaryLynn murmured, bringing the blanket up to her chin as she lay back down. "Probably no more than fifteen years of age."

"I see. Even so, adolescen' boys know nothin', no matter their heritage. They're still childr'n to me. A child isn' going to know how to stop an outbreak from happenin', let alone a political struggle over freedom!"

As Madame shouted, she waved her plump hands about, her eyes enlarged with emotion. She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her hooked nose. She did not want to upset MaryLynn any further.

"I know you've got tha' 'bleeding heart' and all, but some people you can't go helpin'. You don' know wha' trouble they bring with them."

"I don't care," the young woman retorts, turning over on her side to face the window. "You didn't see him. He tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. Up on the rooftop. All alone."

"You didn' say anythin' about this, did you? They'll hurt you more than Lee did."

"No, I went hiding in the alley after the red coats tried to corner crowds against the buildings. I had another...episode."

"Episode? Tha' panic of yours, eh?"

She could see the back of the young woman's head nod.

"I wish I knew wha' to call tha', dear. From what you tell me, it makes sense you panic over those brutes pushing you and those people against the wall. You panic over small things too, as if you're abou' to die. I don' quite understand, but I wish I had the cure for ya, dearie."

Cracking her back before sitting down at the end of the bed, Madame asks the young woman, "Anyway, wha' exactly happened?"

"The Native boy bumped into me in the alley. My panic stopped once I recognized him from the rooftop. He was in danger, and the episode stopped, strangely. I helped steer the red coats away while he hid in a haystack. I wished him luck before he climbed a building to disappear over the roof. I hope he is safe now."

"Wha' am I going to do with you, MaryLynn?" the older woman sighed, standing up from her seat on the bed. "Stay out of this mess. For now, jus' rest. You're not workin' tonigh' like this."

Walking over to the bedroom door with heavy feet, Madame opened it to shout into the hallway, her head of frizzy red curls poking through the threshold.

"Emmaline! Get your arse washed up, you're up tonigh'!"

Once Madame left the bedroom, she closed the door shut, leaving the young woman bathed in a comforting darkness. The moon, with no shame whatsoever, exposed herself fully in the violet skies, granting MaryLynn some source of light. Slowly reaching over to an old nightstand of oakwood, she pulls out the single drawer to fetch a treasured necklace. Beads clacked against the wood as she retrieved an onyx rosary, the crucifix hitting against the drawer with a loud, "clack!" She eased back into bed, cradling the beloved rosary in her palms. Her eyes welled with fresh tears as she pressed the crucifix tightly to her bosom, the metal and onyx beads pressing into the cotton bodice. She never regretted accepting this rosary, even if it's original possessor was her mother.

"You may think I am stained, Mother, wherever you may be. However, I'm still worthy in the Lord's eyes. I hope.."

A mumbled prayer, recited over a dozen times, had finally granted the young woman sleep. Her last waking thought before surrendering to unconsciousness was of the Native boy's round face. His innocent, wide eyed stare when she kissed him for luck.

**+++++**

Sam had won over the shoppe keeper with grace. Connor should have been relieved, though his shoulders refused to ease from the tension. He had stumbled around the city like a fool, failing at halting the massacre. He growled under his breath, turning away from the conversing men. Once the printing process had begun, Sam bickering with the shoppe keeper, an old copy of the Wanted poster atop the oakwood counter captured Connor's attention. Narrowing his eyes with frustration, he swiped the poster from the counter and ripped it in two.

"Hey, hey!" yelled the shoppe keeper. "Do NOT make a mess in my shop, boy. I'm doing you and this grown arse over here a favor!"

"Calm down, he's just a child," Sam spoke, gesturing for the man to remain tranquil. "This kindness will not be forgotten."

"It sure as hell won't, Adams."

This "machine" as Sam Adams had called it was both astonishing and disgusting. Ink on paper without manually writing the words, transposing images onto dozens of papers. How could a machine dictate people's perception of him in such a light, only to change his reputation within a heartbeat? Could he not just defend himself with the truth? The Native boy exhaled through flared nostrils. This journey would surely be a burdensome one. Crumbling the torn pieces of the poster between his large palms, Connor shoved the ball of paper into one of his leather pouches. Perhaps a small fire with these pieces thrown in will cheer his spirits up later on.

It was only a day he had spent in Boston, and already he had started a commotion. In the back of his mind, the young man wished he never left the comfort of his village.

**+++++**

A couple of days later, MaryLynn was able to walk without immense pain in her nether regions. She comes across a poster of Connor on her way back from the marketplace (Madame needed more fruit and meat for the kitchen). There was a tavern not too far from the brothel where she resided. The Green Dragon. Passing the said tavern by, she captured sight of a fresh poster plastered to the brick wall. The depicted face had a mop of black hair covering his eyes. Only his chin and frowning lips had shown. She stared at the large poster until she recognized that the portrait was of the Native boy. Covering her mouth with her palm, she hoped no one would notice her gawking like a little girl.

He was no longer a wanted man (well, boy) in this town. He was depicted as a hero in this newer version of the poster. It informed of him attempting to stop the massacre, an "admirable attempt, indeed," as was written on the parchment. She sighed with relief. Hopefully, he was alright. With a quick swipe of her hand, she thieved the poster from the brick wall. No one would mind such a menial thing. Tucking the poster in her coat, she walked away as if nothing happened. A charming little memento, no? Now, she could remember that clumsy, innocent Native boy. The portrait did not quite capture his demeanor very well, in her opinion. 'He was much more handsome in person.' She smiled, relishing in the memory of his dark, curious eyes, a pout upon his lips. 'I pray for your safety, sweet boy.'

****** : _The "episode of panic" mentioned throughout this chapter refers to what is today known as a panic attack. MaryLynn experiences these episodes now and then, so she would in today's world be diagnosed with a panic disorder. A structured, medical view on Psychology (versus a philosophical sort) did not emerge until the 19th century, so I tried my best to come up with a term that colonials would use._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Hey there! Hope you enjoyed this first portion of Like a Prayer. This work was originally posted on fan fiction[dot]net, but was told about Archive of Own by Dita-Von-Teese (she's a fabulous writer). So, I wanted to share this work over here. I'm already enjoying some fics posted here, and I look forward to chatting with you. :)
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated! As for my OC, MaryLynn: I chose to create an OC based on **Marilyn Monroe** because she is one of my idols and I treasure the memory of her. Plus, my Connor/Ratonhnhake:ton collectibles are starting to out-number my Marilyn collectibles, haha. The idea was stemmed from arranging figures of them(and I like to experiment).
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. Hope you have a lovely day. :)
> 
> ~take care


	3. The Past Comes Knocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 2: The Past Comes Knocking**
> 
> _I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel._
> 
> _The lyrics provided are from the songs:_
> 
> _1) "A Man Chases a Girl"_
> 
> _2) "Down in the Meadow"_
> 
> _3) "I Wanna Be Loved By You"_
> 
> _All three songs were performed by_ **Marilyn Monroe.**
> 
>  _Italics:_ Used for memories and native tongue

_Three Years Later_

_Boston, 1773_

Traveling to Boston could not have been fast enough for his escalating anger. Each snap of a twig beneath his heavy feet would only further spark his impatience. He was not going to fail to protect his people again. No. Never again. He was no longer a helpless child, being choked by a terrifying man while his people suffered. He had the strength and abilities to stop the injustice this time. And Connor had every intention of doing so. First, he had to swallow down the painful memories that crept their way into his mind.

Erase the fire.

Erase the screams.

Erase the large hand at his throat.

Erase his mother's final words.

_"You must be brave, Ratonhnhake':ton.."_

_Alright_...He was alright. Connor returned to the present moment in the comfort of the forest. He could not risk dwelling on this trauma for too long, for he feared that he would stop moving.

The treetops watched from above as the Native assassin dashed away, their branches intertwined like steepled skeletal fingers. 'What is this man chasing this time, hmm?' one could imagine the trees musing.

_"This man, William Johnson, plans to take our land and force our people to leave. Ratonhnhake:ton...My dearest friend, I had to seek you out. This must be stopped."_

The words of his dearest friend, Kanen'to:kon, recurred over and over in his mind, memorizing the new target's name intently as if it were his own. It was a shame that the reunion with Kanen'to:kon was not spent in delight. Guilt gnawed away at Connor's heart, but his determination to seek out the next villain surpassed this emotion. _'I will visit soon, my friend. I promise.'_

A scowl had been plastered upon his chapped lips throughout his trek, having left the Davenport Homestead shortly after whipping a tomahawk into a column. Dismissing the chastising of his teacher, Achilles Davenport, Connor had declared a personal war with William Johnson, promising to return when this thorn in his side was removed and annihilated to his satisfaction. Lee would have to wait. For now.

"If you embark on this mission, seek out Sam Adams," Achilles had advised earlier that day, concealing his disapproval of his student's actions without thinking.

The journey through the woods would come to a close sometime in the evening, the weary sun giving way to the waking night. The fire lit lanterns and street lamps of the city granted him some relief. He was closer. This relief was soon thieved of him when Sam Adams was nowhere to be found. Connor cursed in his native tongue in a low breath, his fists tightening by his sides. After an hour of interrogating town callers and merchants, he finally received a direct tip from a local printer he once visited with the statesman years ago.

"Ah, Sam's usually plotting away in the Green Dragon Tavern," the printer had informed, filing away a day's worth of paperwork. "It's a few blocks down from here. The sign is hard to miss with that Oriental dragon and all. Say, do I know you?"

"No," he dismissed the question curtly, leaving the printing shop in a swift manner.

And off Connor went, tracking down the tavern with ease. Just as the printer had promised, a green dragon with a long, serpent body met his dark eyes. The depicted dragon seemed to grin wickedly down at the Native assassin, for numerous secrets and shenanigans have occurred in this tavern time and time again. Fortunately enough, Connor focused his attention to the entrance door, recognizing Sam. The statesman was accompanied by his long time slave, Surry, who was dressed in a worn out, powder blue coat and white breeches. Connor faintly remembered the young man from years ago. He had been the one to direct him to Sam Adams when Achilles was nowhere in sight after the massacre.

"Samuel Adams," he speaks the statesman's full name in a commanding tone.

Sam turns around and smirks at how much the Native boy had grown since he had last saw him. He recognized that solemn demeanor from a mile away.

"Connor," Sam greets with a lazy smile. "What brings you to Boston, my friend?"

"I have been searching for you," he dismisses the friendly chatter, his focus solely on Johnson. "What do you know of William Johnson's whereabouts?"

"William Johnson," Sam reiterated, his eyes drifting in thought.

With a jerk of his head, Sam motioned for Surry to meet him in the tavern. The older man leans in to speak with Connor in a low voice.

"Be wary of discussing such things in public. Now what has happened?"

"He plans to purchase the land my village lives upon without my people's consent. I need your assistance to track this William Johnson down. Now."

"I see your dilemma," the statesman rubs his chin, his mind skimming over recollections of Johnson's schemes. "Alright. Have some patience first. We cannot act if not enough information is collected. Let us discuss this over ale, eh? I promised Surry that I would watch him perform with this songstress that's a tavern favorite around here."

Connor merely nods, his frown easing a tad. At least something was set in motion.

Stepping into the tavern, a wave of warmth and the scent of spiced ale infiltrated his nostrils. The smell was foreign to him, and he was not quite sure if he enjoyed it or not. The corner of his lip twitched. The noise was much too loud for his liking. Sam laid claim on a small table tucked in a corner near the bar, motioning with a wave of his large hand for Connor to sit. Doing so, Connor found himself facing the spectrum of the rambunctious tavern at this late hour.

"It's packed tonight," Sam noted, his light eyes scanning the room as he twisted around in his seat. "Hmm, mostly men. No lady friends for you tonight, I'm afraid."

The older man chuckled, but the Native assassin did not offer a smile. He was not interested in a woman's company at the moment.

"Please, Samuel. I implore you to discuss this issue with me."

"As you wish."

Ordering two ales for them both, Sam informed the young man on Johnson's tea extortion. _'Why delve into this? My people's land is at stake.'_ The statesman proposed that he would aid Connor in preventing the sale of his people's village if he agreed to take part in destroying the tea extortion with, as he called them, "like-minded men." Connor mulled over the proposal. True, he neither expected nor wanted an exchange of favors in eliminating Johnson. However, if this corruption of the tea extortion would feast away Johnson's power, then the Native assassin was more than up for the challenge.

"I accept," Connor affirmed, his palms pressed face down onto the table.

"Looks like we're in business," smirked Sam, nodding his head.

The twinkling sound of tickled piano keys struck through the indistinguishable noise of chatter. Voices began to boom in volume as a couple of wolf-whistles sounded off.

"What is happening?" asked Connor, leaning his head over to the side to peer over bopping heads.

"Remember that songstress I spoke of during our rather short-lived reunion at the entrance?"

Connor merely nodded, still seeking out the cause of this effect on the drunken men in the tavern.

"Look to the staircase to the far right," Sam instructs him with a smirk.

Following the instruction, the young man located the winding staircase to the far right where a woman stood three steps from the floor. Her hip was jutted out to the left, a coy smile curling her berry stained lips. Loose curls of gold hair framed her heart-shaped face delicately, bouncing along as she descended the final steps.

"Did you all come to visit me?" she spoke in a breathy voice, her fingertips reaching up to touch her cheeks.

More whistles sounded off at the woman's theatrical playfulness. Her dress was a rich shade of green, the collar pinned down over her shoulders and collarbone. Connor stared with wide eyes from beneath his hood. The bright smile. The soft giggle. The blonde curls.

He cursed under his breath in surprise.

"That woman," he mumbled.

Connor watched intently as the woman made her way to the piano where Surry sat, warming up his fingers for the night. Looking up from the ivory keys, Surry smiled as the blonde woman leaned over to peck his cheek in greeting. Sam chuckled deeply over Connor's dumbfounded expression, mistaking him for being smitten. Actually, Connor was just shocked to find the woman that aided him in the massacre years ago.

"Ha ha! I figured you'd take to her quickly," Sam chuckled aloud. "She sings while Surry over there plays the piano. Quite the prodigy, he is."

"I know that woman," he informed sternly, having been caught off guard by the past.

"Do you? Well, say 'Hello' afterward."

"I cannot," he declined, rising from his seat abruptly.

"Connor, stay and relax for a while."

"I am sorry. I must leave."

Whether it was rational or not, he experienced a sense of embarrassment. He hoped that she would not see him, not recognize him. He was just a boy on the verge of manhood at the time she met him in the alleyway. He was so clumsy and inexperienced then. A sweet woman had to help him escape when he initially could not execute the plan on his own. Seeing her on this very night had revived the fumbling boy who was still alive in him.

It was more than likely that she had forgotten him. He did not even know her name, but her face and her smile were imbedded in his mind. Clearing his throat, he pulled his pointed white hood further over his face, keeping his head low as reached the entrance door. Before he could turn the golden knob, a soprano voice coos, enchanting his ears. He was stopped in his tracks.

_"A man chases a girl,_

_until she catches him.."_

Rushing to exit the tavern, he slammed the door shut behind him. He could still hear her voice from a nearby open window.

_"He runs after a girl,_

_until he's caught.."_

Such a sound, such a soft voice married with the sombre tune of an antique piano. The noise of the bustling tavern was no longer a bother, for he only heard her sing.

Lingering at the slightly ajar window, he leaned his back against the brick wall, continuing to listen in on the song. Perhaps this visit to Boston wouldn't be entirely disgruntling. He could have departed then. Easily. However, his body refused to budge. He could actually feel his hunched shoulders ease in tension as one song followed another. _'Perhaps I will stay a bit longer,'_ he thought, masking his child-like enjoyment over the melody with duty. _'Just a moment longer, and no more. Then I leave.'_

Connor remained near that window for as long as the woman would sing.

+++++

For the past fortnight, the Native assassin visited the Green Dragon Tavern. He would remain stationed at the open window only if she was present to sing. He never walked in the tavern, strangely. He eventually made himself comfortable outside, claiming a wooden awning above the entrance door as his favorite seat. Connor felt more secure enjoying her voice in the shadows, where she could not see him.

The woman's arrival in the tavern was oddly unpredictable. She was usually late, whether it be for twenty minutes or an entire hour. He knew that she would sing tonight, for he located Surry through the window, preparing himself at the piano. On this night, she did not appear for almost an hour.

Alas, he waited. It was none of his business what she did with her time. Connor could be seen lightly swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the awning, listening in contently for the woman's voice to make itself known.

+++++

Shallow wheezing escaped her mouth as she desperately tried to breath. The calls of the men in the tavern were causing her heart to palpitate at an alarming rate. Too much pressure, too much demand from a man, especially more than one. She was due to sing downstairs in the tavern an hour ago. However, the suffocation of a panic brought the woman to her knees. Madame had arrived not too long ago after being given the message of MaryLynn's episode. She had taken her valued girl to one of the vacant bedrooms upstairs in the tavern, trying to calm down the nervous woman.

"Breathe! You're goin' to breathe, girl! We can't do this every time you go out there! You're perfectly fine fuckin' a man, and yet this fright'ns you to no end."

"I c-can't...the people, the sounds...I-I can't t-take the p-p-pressure," MaryLynn sputtered, her skin blotched with red in patches.

"Dear Lord, help me not strike this child. I'm gettin' the whiskey. After tha', you are goin' out there. I have to get back to the Mav'rick."

MaryLynn wrung her quivering hands together once Madame left to fetch the whiskey. Little did the older woman know, MaryLynn usually supplied herself with a flask of either aged whiskey or bourbon strapped to her thigh beneath her clothing. Just in case. However, in the midst of a panic episode, her body was paralyzed by an unseen, nonexistent threat, her body unsure whether to fight or remain perfectly still.

The anticipation of the noises and sights always struck her with paralyzingly anxiety before she went on. Do not mistaken, she loved to sing beside that lovely antique piano, waving her hands lightly about like dove wings and puckering her flushed lips to achieve the right tune. It was her only escape to a pleasant world.

However, the fear of losing a roof over her head had plagued her for almost a decade. The demands of a man, when the situation was not under her control alone, contributed to the panic as well. As the clientele raised, the number of friends declined. Only Madame, and at times Surry, was the only people she spoke to; but lonliness was torture. She strived for just one thing over all these psychological triggers: **control**. What if she failed? What if she didn't get clients? What if she was harmed unexpectedly? What if Madame threw her out of the brothel, ill fated to walk the streets as she did as an adolescent?

The downward spiral of insecurity was debilitating.

The woman was one of the top prostitutes in Boston! Why have such irrational thoughts? Well, that is the mystery of MaryLynn Mortenson. Life seemed in check. She knew what to say and what to do, even _how_ , in order to gain what she needed from men. And yet, an impending doom and constant sense of danger never left her heart. Two different people co-existed within her curved body: the vixen with all the charm in the palm of her hand, and the virgin with the shame of a stain on her womanhood.

"Here," Madame returned with a shot of luke warm whiskey, kneeling down to the seated woman as if giving an infant warm milk. "Drink this down and get ou' there."

The blonde woman nodded timidly, accepting the glass without meeting Madame's gaze. A few sips down her parched throat, and she relaxed within ten minutes. The interchanging of the two personas occurred once the woman stood up to walk to the staircase, leaving a tired Madame to herself.

"Now _I_ need a bloody drink. Damn girl drank it all!" mumbled Madame, sighing aloud.

Descending down the winding staircase, the quiver of the blonde woman's lips formed into the smile of a confident, sensual woman. Her fingertips traced along the oakwood railing slowly, the sensual feel of the polished wood ever so delicious.

The men cheered and howled at the sight of the fair haired woman in the pale yellow dress, her smooth shoulders exposed. Winking, the quiet voice from before had changed into a sultry tone as she cooed, "Sorry to keep you waiting, fellas. I just couldn't decide what to wear for you tonight!"

Laughter erupted at the light joke.

Whiskey was her medicine. Singing was her pride. Sex was her business. Beneath it all, she was a little girl frightened over ending up on the street again. Alone. She wanted to be remembered, whether it was for a good roll in bed, a kind word, or a sultry, soft voice. Her pain was molded into a carefree, sensual performance for all to see. The pain then, and only then, was shelved for a while.

'Thank goodness Madame had extra pins to alter this dress!' she thought with gratitude, referring to the pulled down collar. Quickly, she met with Surry at the piano. Occasionally, two other men, a violist and a flutist, would join. They were nice enough, but it was Surry whom she got along with famously. His impeccable rhythm with the keys and her velvety soprano went hand in hand. He was a quiet young man, but he warmed up to MaryLynn over the past year that they have worked together. A prostitute and a slave. Seemed like an interesting showmanship.

+++++

Sometime into the performance, Sam had located the Native assassin in his usual spot, lost in his own world as he listened to the woman sing. He was immersed in the woman's voice, his anger and obsessive determination soothed for a while. Shaking his head, Sam had had enough of the young man's reluctance. Sitting outside the tavern like an eager peasant child? _Really?_

"Blast it, Connor! Just introduce yourself to her!"

"No," he responds, his focus retained on the window.

Sam finds himself chuckling softly, his impatience wavering. After all his years of red-hot fury, the older man had found ways to find humor in situations to alleviate himself. No need to yell.

"Woman troubles, my friend?"

"I do not understand."

"Do you..how do I explain this..do you fancy her? Hence this reluctance to just say, 'Hello, my name is..' Surry works with her, you know this. He can introduce you."

"I still do not like that you own a man."

"Now don't change the subject on me," Sam chastised, knowing full well not to go into _that_ conversation with Connor. "What is so opposing about simply talking to the woman?"

"Oh," he exhaled aloud, turning his body around to look down to Sam. "It is not that it is opposing. I barely know her, and she serves me no benefit in my mission. I see no purpose in making myself known."

His firm, matter-of-fact statements caused the statesman to laugh aloud. The Native assassin found business in everything he encountered, and handled them as such. The iron mask of stoicism never faltered. However, seeing Connor in such a relaxed state when listening to MaryLynn sing left Sam pondering over the young man's inner self.

"Connor, Connor, Connor...Perhaps it is a good thing that you are not a romantic man. 'Assassin' seems to suit you just fine, my friend."

Connor dismisses Sam's musings, turning back to his original position on the awning to listen in on the next song.

_"When Mister South Wind sighs in the pines,_

_old Mister Winter whimpers and whines._

_Down in the meadow, under the snow,_

_April is teaching green things to grow."_

"She starts again," says Connor, leaning forward to hear better. "This song is my favorite, Sam. Listen."

"I'll listen with you if you promise to actually go in the damn tavern this time. I hear she does more than just sing," Sam suggestively hints at her other "profession."

"It is a difficult time. It is not unheard of to work in a tavern and tend to farmland," Connor reasoned with raised eyebrows. "What else does this woman do?"

Sam had chosen not to enlighten Connor on prostitution and wooing women altogether. He had neither the energy nor the patience to educate the oblivious young man.

"No. Nevermind," he said, rubbing his eyes before looking back up at Connor. "I'm going in for a drink. You're free to join me."

Sam made his way to the entrance, pulling open the heavy wooden door. After mulling over the trivial (in his opinion) proposition for several moments, Connor jumps down from the awning, acceding to Sam's offer. The statesman stood at the doorway threshold, smirking over his victory in persuading the bull-headed young man. Connor did not look him in the eye, his stance low and heavy. He did not even admit to his curiosity over the woman. Too proud. Much too proud.

"What of Johnson?" Connor decides to initiate a conversation. "Do you have any new information?"

+++++

Three songs had passed before an odd figure entered the tavern. A man in a long white coat, pointed hood hung low over his face, had entered the tavern abruptly with Sam Adams. His low stance and reserved manner was enough for MaryLynn to cock an eyebrow. The man strolled with heavy feet, yet he did not move like a baboon. He was rather graceful in his movements, omniscient of his surrounding with quick turns of his head. He made his way through groups of socializing men with a shift of his shoulder as he followed Sam to the far end of the bar. MaryLynn could not see most of his face, for the white hood with a pointed tongue concealed it well.

From what she could discern, he had downturned, firm lips and a strong chin. Her blue eyes flickered with curiosity as she watched the man-in-white sit down on a stool, Sam Adams taking a seat on the man's right side. The statesman chuckled as he patted the man's back. Some kind of joke shared? She did not know. The pair of gentlemen huddled at the corner of the bar, conversing in low voices and their heads ducked. 'I've seen that man speak with Sam before. Odd. Surry hasn't mentioned anything about a man in a white coat. So strange.' Luckily, she was on a five minute break, resting her voice as she observed the pair of gentlemen from a several feet away.

MaryLynn's mouth parted slightly as she intently watched the man-in-white's lips move. They were not as firm as she thought before. There was a plumpness to them now that he relaxed. He mouthed his words slowly, with intent. His face, or what she could see of it, did not falter with any emotion whatsoever. Amusingly enough, Sam was the one with his heart on his sleeve, his face a one-man show altogether. Perhaps he experienced enough emotion for the both of them.

"Hey, Mary," came a voice from behind, her name phonetically sounding like "merry" from his mouth.

It was Surry. He had politely retrieved the woman from her trance. He was comfortable in his addressing her over time.

About a year ago, Sam had brought Surry to the Green Dragon Tavern for an ale or two to listen to folk music. From what she could see, Sam was generous with the owned young man. The charming tune of tickled piano keys had perked the young man's ears. Sam's wife had taught Surry how to play the piano years ago when he was first acquired. According to Surry, Sam had that infamous twinkle in his eye before addressing the previous pianist, requesting he allow Surry to play a melody or two. Once his slim dark fingers graced those giggling keys, the rest was history.

It wasn't long before Surry had encountered MaryLynn, who at the time started singing in the tavern to add to her business. Surry hadn't a clue as to what she did outside the tavern. He never felt the need to ask. The twosome started evening performances at the Green Dragon, and have been doing so ever since. With her velvety, breathy voice and his flawless talent for rhythm, the two got along famously.

Once his address reached her ears, MaryLynn's eyes shot open while her cheeks were stained with red.

"We have two more songs left," Surry continued. "Which one would you like first?"

"Oh," she sighed, her eyes drawn to the ceiling as dozens of lyrics sounded off in her mind. With a flicker of her eyes, she smiled warmly, whispering to her partner her selection. She cupped her palm around her mouth to amplify the whisper. He nods, smiling at her selection.

"You always save that song for last," he grins widely.

She giggled, covering her berry stained lips with her hands for a moment.

"It's my favorite! I cannot help it," she admitted, removing her hands from her lips when she spoke.

If it was a show they wanted, then a show was what they were going to get.

A short, chipper melody opens the song, the undistinguishable chatter beginning to soften. Gliding her small hand along the rim of the piano, MaryLynn coos the beginning of the song, expanding her diaphragm as she places her other hand upon her chest.

_"I wanna be loved by you.."_

A couple of whistles sound off from the bar before she continues.

_"..just you, and nobody else but you. I wanna be loved by you...alo-oone."_

As the song progressed, Connor leaned his head over to see the woman embrace herself with curled fingers, her eyelashes fluttered shut. She was in a world of her own creation when she sang. Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Connor resorted to leaving the tavern before she saw his face. Bidding Sam a quick goodbye, he rises from the wooden stool. Sam, being the older gentlemen with more experience, rubs his eyes as he grumbled, "I will _lock you up_ with a woman one of these days, I swear."

Looking up at Connor, he speaks over the chatter and singing.

"You have no hesitation when infiltrating a fort. And yet, a woman shakes you to the bone! Dear Lord.."

Connor ignored the statesman's frustration. He did not see the importance of gaining this woman's attention. She was just another person. Yes, he was grateful for her kindness three years ago, but he needed nothing more from her. He thieves a glance at the singing woman as he made his way through the crowd. Her blonde curls framed her face nicely, softening the sharp structure of her cheekbones and jutting chin.

She was a little flushed from the constant movement about the piano and the projection of her voice. Surry would occasionally look up at the woman and smile. Seeing her sway her full hips, her hands coyly placed upon them, Connor could not deny to himself that there was something alluring about her. He could not identify the reason why. He just enjoyed it. He refocused his gaze onto the entrance door. Connor's upper lip twitched as he swiftly turning his gaze away, quickening his pace to the entrance door.

MaryLynn was not oblivious. The slight twitch of his lip did not escape her. A woman always knew when a man was intrigued. Grinning, she looks over in his direction, approaching the end of the song.

 _"I couldn't aspire to anything higher...than the desire to make..you..my own,"_ she coyly points with her index finger at Connor, who just opened the entrance door to step outside.

A couple of men seated at a table near the entrance door argued over who she was pointing to.

"It was _me_!"

"No, you arse, she pointed at _me_!"

Some men knew well enough that she pointed at the man-in-white. He did not acknowledge her gesture, instead closing the heavy, wooden door behind him.

 _'She cannot see me,'_ Connor thought, furrowing his brows. _'I have nothing to offer her. I will at least see her home before I seek refuge for the night.'_ It was the least he could do for the woman who gave her kindness to a complete stranger such as himself.

Back in the tavern, the blonde woman felt slightly offended, pouting her lower lip. She resorted to shrugging her shoulders, waving her hand in the air as a dismissal of the man. 'I can get another man's attention just fine, thank you very much.' However, she was intrigued all the same. 'Not so easy to bend my way,' she notes of him. 'This fascinates me. Why so repelled by me, I wonder? He's a full grown man. A woman is probably nothing new to him. Probably has a wife. I can respect that. I suppose.'

+++++

The cool air was a godsend to her heated skin as she exited the tavern, her schedule permitting her room to breathe. She was free to return to the brothel, but a quick break alone would serve her nerves well. Thank goodness she was not working tonight! Another man's poor attempt at what he called "sex" was not welcomed tonight.

The chilling weather was a pleasant caress to her face, neck, and shoulders. MaryLynn felt overheated from the nervous tension and the energy she poured into each and every song. Her heart beat rapidly. 'My gosh, does any one else get this flustered? No wonder people drink themselves silly.'

Her hand automatically reached for the flask beneath her petticoat, a brown leather harness strapped to her shapely thigh. Little did Madame know, MaryLynn kept an extra ounce or two of whiskey in a black leather flask in case of another panic episode. Whiskey seemed to do the trick for the past couple of years or so. However, Madame, and Madame alone, supplied her girl with alcohol, fearing that if she had her way with the bottles, she would end up a pathetic drunk like other girls in the business.

'I can hold my whiskey just fine,' MaryLynn thought as she drank in a plentiful gulp of the bitter gold elixir

"Ay, you be sharin' that with meh?" an intoxicated man with a heavy accent approached her.

His movements were sloppy and his eyes were glazed over. MaryLynn cleared her throat, the whiskey granting her confidence.

"No, sir," she politely declined, flipping on her public persona of the breathy-voiced damsel. "I am so parched from singing, and even a girl needs a little kick to calm down."

The drunken man chuckled, a cough or two escaping his phlegmy throat. MaryLynn arched an eyebrow, twisting the lid back onto the flask.

"I'll help yeh calm d'wn, missy," the drunken man slurs.

He tripped over his feet as he pushed himself towards her, planning to pin her against the wall. Her heart was close to ceasing its rhythm, but MaryLynn channeled her anger the way Madame taught her.

"When a lady says _'no,'_ " she began, her damsel persona faltering immediately, "she _means_ **no**!"

She kicks the man's shin with force, causing him to yell out. Using the heel of her palm, she strike it up under the man's chin. He grabbed hold of his screaming limb, his eyes shut tightly as his chin throbbed with pain.

"You wench! I ought ta...!"

His speech was slurred, incomplete. His actions took over as he advanced to strike the woman with his fist. Before he could do such a thing, he was seized by the forearm by another, taller man. Surprised, the drunken man stumbles about before being tossed aside like a rag doll to the ground.

The man-in-white.

MaryLynn absentmindedly drops the flask to the ground, the "fwop" of leather hitting the stone floor unheard by her ears. She was surprised by the sudden scene. The man in the white coat looks down at her, his expression stiff. Standing at a full six feet, he towered over the blonde woman. Seconds before he could advance towards her, she forcefully pulls off her shoe and projects it at the man's face with all her strength. To her dismay, he blocks the shoe with his forearm. He bent down to retrieve it from the street.

"Stay back!" she warns him, her stance widening in case she was required to run to safety.

The man simply looks down at the black leather shoe in his hand, then back at the threatened woman.

"Why did you throw this shoe at me?" he firmly questions, his tone irritated. "People usually _thank me_ for helping them."

"You _scared_ me! I was almost assaulted by a stranger, and you honestly think I will trust another one that approaches me? At this time of night?"

"My intention was not to scare you, but _help_ you."

"I can handle myself. It's not the first time some creep tries to hurt me."

His frown deepens, clearly not understanding her defensive nature. She was rescued. End of story. Realizing that the man-in-white meant no harm, MaryLynn sighed aloud. After years of avoiding assaults, and recovering from them, she vowed not to find herself in such situations ever again. The man had not harmed her. He could easily have done so, but no such thing occurred.

"Forgive me, sir," she exhales, her stature straightening up. "It's been a long night, and I am usually panicky. It's dark outside, and I have to be alert, even if I just come outside for a moment."

In a subtle transition, the frown becomes a neutral expression upon the man's chapped lips. He nods, gesturing his acceptance of her apology. His silence still made her uneasy.

"Thank you for helping me."

"You are welcome."

"May I have my shoe back?" she requests, reaching out her hand as if the shoe would automatically drop into her palm.

"No."

"Pardon me?" she juts out a hip, placing a hand upon it.

She was baffled by his answer, her eyebrows knitting together as her nose crinkled.

"You threw this shoe at me," the man reasoned, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What makes you think I will return it to you, only for you to throw it again?"

He was almost amused by her pout, her flustered expression. He was reminded of the children of his tribe who would sulk after losing to a game of hide-and-seek. Of course, Connor was usually the victor. The smirk quickly vanished as he surrendered her shoe with a proposal.

"If you promise not to throw this shoe at me again, I will return it."

"Fair enough."

She wobbles forward to retrieve the shoe, hopping on the foot that was not bare. She stumbles, only to be caught by the man. Looking up, she finds that his plump lips and strong chin looked familiar up close, especially the copper skin. She strained her vision to see his eyes, swimming in the shadow cast by his hood.

"Do I know you?" she draws out the syllables of her question.

He does not answer, releasing his hold of the woman as if she were hot coal. Connor felt too embarrassed to tell her who he was: the clumsy boy in the peak of his teenage years, running away from red coats. Even telling her that he had stopped by, night after night, to hear her sing as he hid away from sight was something he was not comfortable admitting. Would she deem him rude? Strange?

She seemed harmless enough. Looking down onto the shorter woman before him, he pulls back his white hood, revealing his deep set eyes and high forehead. Her nose crinkled as she examined his face. She remembered those dark eyes, the furrowed black eyebrows. Those...those _freckles_! Yes! She _did_ know him!

"You are that Native boy from the massacre a few years ago," she sputters quickly.

His voice had deepened even more since then. The plump fat of youth was long gone from his face, a chiseled visage of high cheekbones, distinguishing nose and chin, and a high forehead having made their way. Even his build was different. He had grown a bit in height, and his body was bulked with muscles. He became rather-

"Handsome," she whispered under breath.

"I cannot hear you," he says. "Please, speak up."

She smiles at his overly proper speech, her teeth bared as her lips curled back. He clears his throat, suppressing a pleasant reaction to her warm disposition. He surrenders the little hostage that was MaryLynn's shoe. Possessing the shoe once again, she leans down carefully, slipping it back on her bare foot.

She stalks off to retrieve the fallen flask from the ground. Shortly after dusting off the object, she lifts up her dress and petticoat to stick the flask back into the leather harness strapped to her thigh. The Native assassin did not leer as a colonial man would. Instead, he looked down at his fingerless leather gloves, picking at the material pedantically. 'Odd one, he is,' she muses, taking note of the man's awkward behavior. 'Has he not seen a woman's thigh before? He's much too handsome to be a virgin. I wonder if he is celibate.'

"What is that you are trying to conceal?" he questions her, clearly avoiding the sight of her.

Her analysis cut short, MaryLynn shakes her head, refocusing on his inquiry.

"My flask. I need a sip..or two..of whiskey from time to time to relax," she informs him, slightly embarrassed by that fact.

Her eyebrows suddenly raise up, realizing that she revealed a secret to a stranger.

"Don't tell anyone. Please? If word gets out I drink in secrecy, Madame will get upset if she suspects I drink more than I should!"

Ceasing the picking away of his leather gloves, he tries to meet her worried gaze.

"I will not tell if you do not tell of my appearance. I suspect my reputation here may not remain in high regards soon."

Brushing off her wrinkled pale yellow dress, MaryLynn stands up straight. She carefully imbibes the sight of his face once more, trying to recall his adolescent appearance.

"I never asked you about your purpose years ago. You tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. I assumed that you were on the side of freedom. I'm hoping you still are?"

His face becomes serious, staring directly into her eyes without discomfort for the first time that night.

"Yes," he spoke with command, his voice further deepened.

"What is your name? I've wondered this for years. Please, do not tease me," she says playfully, her voice a soft breath.

He was conditioned long enough to give his adopted name rather than his birth name. However, he sometimes wished he could just recite his birth name without someone butchering the pronunciation.

"Connor."

"Connor," she reiterates, smiling over the manner in which the sound played upon her lips and tongue. "I am happy to see that you are alive and well."

She walks up to Connor, pushing herself up on the tips of her toes to chastely kiss him on the cheek. She lingers on his copper skin, reluctant to pull away. To her surprise, the Native assassin's torso jolts before suddenly backing away from her touch.

"D-do you need me to accompany you home?" he immediately escapes the situation with a firm inquiry, the woman's touch too overwhelming for him.

Bewildered by his apparent aversion to physical contact, she decides to spare him the embarrassment of the moment by going along with his diversion.

"My 'home' is only a few blocks away. I will be fine, knowing you are around. I thank you, truly."

She hesitated in telling him more of her residence, which was the brothel a few doors down. She did not want to be rude and ask of his awareness of her services. Business was business, and she played the game well with singing in taverns and rocking beds several nights a week. The young man did not come across as a typical, sex-famished man, bored with his married life and troubled by the political struggles. Quite frankly, she could not discern if he was sexual at all! Was there such a thing in a man who was clearly not a monk? As intriguing as he was, she did not deem him beneficial to the brothel's business. Oh well. No matter.

"Miss," began Connor.

"You can call me MaryLynn," she interrupts to inform him.

"Sorry. MaryLynn...I had known that it was you, from the massacre. Forgive me, but I have been coming to this tavern for the past few nights, listening to your singing. I do not know if this is offensive or-"

"Oh, Connor!" she chuckles, mercifully ending his fishing for the proper English words and customs. "I'm flattered that you visit, silly man. Do you really like my singing?"

"Very much," he answered eagerly, a hint of childish glee peaking through.

The woman covers her bashful grin, her eyes flickering as they look up to the night sky. She returns her gaze to Connor, removing her hands from her grin. He clears his throat, averting his eyes as he picks at his fingerless leather gloves once again. A nervous habit of his.

"I'm so happy to hear this," she admits.

At least he came to hear her sing. That fact alone made her heart swell. He nods his head, a partial smile given as he glances at her face before looking away. Her wide smile and bright eyes possessed a warming air. Connor thieved one last glance at the woman's face before he turned to leave. He bids her a curt goodnight, looking over his shoulder.

"Wait," she quietly requests.

He turns back to face the blonde woman, who rubbed her arms for warmth. What MaryLynn was about to ask was out of the ordinary for a woman of her profession. However, a man who was painfully shy, with an aversion to touch; a man who bore no interest in seeking out her services in the bedroom had inspired her to reach out as a woman of heart.

"Come visit me sometime and say, 'Hello.' I live at The Maverick just down the block. Be sure to provide your intention so no one mistakes you for something else."

"I will," he gives his word.

She looks him over once more, smiling to herself at the bulky coat and collection of weapons strapped to his waist.

"You look like you have a thousand and one stories to tell," she muses.

Connor was not quite sure over the specific number she mentioned.

 _'I don't think I can provide her with a thousand and one stories,'_ thought Connor. _'One or two, perhaps. But even then, why would she want to know?'_

As he turned to leave for good this time, he dashed past the tavern to turn a corner into the back streets, disappearing like a white phantom into the shadows.

"Just don't fret if you see a naked woman walk by when you visit," she murmurs, beginning her walk to the brothel. "If you visit. I hope you can at least be my friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the number **One Thousand and One**. It will make sense in Chapter 4. ;) Also, please note that I had written several chapters already, and did not realize that Surry was a "she" and not a "he" until a month ago when I was looking through the information files in the AC 3 game. Whoops! (blushes) I have a male Surry stuck in my head unfortunately, so I hope you can all accept a genderbent Surry.
> 
> Thank you for the Kudos! Please read and let me know what your thoughts are. Have a lovely week, everyone. :)
> 
> ~take care


	4. Of Pedestals and Closed Windows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 3: Of Pedestals and Closed Windows**
> 
> _I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, and The Maverick brothel._
> 
>   
> _Italics:_ Memories and Connor speaking/thinking in his native tongue.

_December 16th, 1773_

So it finally came to this; this glorious moment for rebels to thieve the reigns of the British taxing. In actuality, it was only tea. Just collections of loose herbs, spiced aromas. Quite a pleasantry for the midnight hour if brewed just right. However, it was the symbolism that riled these rebels to toss the damned crates overboard into the merciless black sea. So fascinating how an act of protest can massively spread the surge of adrenaline amongst multiple bodies all at once. The adrenaline surge, so delicious in its ferocious dance throughout the bloodstream, had been especially thrilling for the Native assassin, protecting the Sons of Liberty from muskets and knives. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed stopping the red coats in their blood stained tracks before ruining this planned act. This was his territory, not their own. And, like the grey back wolf, he enjoyed _every fucking minute_ of annihilating his trespassers.

Tonight had been the night that William Johnson would watch helplessly as his herbal gold was tossed away like soiled rags. This fact alone brought a wicked smirk to Connor's chapped lips. It was all so delicious that he could not desist from tasting it on every level possible.

After being handed the honor of the last crate of tea by his new ally, the hot-headed Frenchman named Stephane Chapeau, Connor held the said crate above his head with a dramatic thrust of his arms into the smoke-filled skies, bleeding black amongst the violet clouds. Johnson watched from afar, blocked off by crowds of rioting colonists. Ironically enough, Charles Lee stood beside him, watching the now grown Native boy he once choked in the forest take action. Sadly enough, the older, balding man was oblivious to this assassin's identity. To him, it was just a mere savage playing along in these colonial rebels' game. He clearly did not see that this young man held a personal vendetta against him for the past nine years, for burning his village...and his own mother.

To Lee, this young man was just some nameless insect when Connor viewed him as the iron thorn in his heart.

With a smug look upon his distinguished face, Connor drops the crate into the sea with an expression of mock regret. Oops. This should slow down Johnson's scheming for control. Perhaps even stop it. Even if it was just the dumping of English tea, it was _something_.

Secretly, in the clandestine depths of his being, Connor was relieved that he did not have to assassinate Johnson then and there. He deemed it not necessary, for the dumping of the tea felt satisfying enough. The Native assassin asserted his power over both the Britshman and the greasy waste of skin that was Lee. That alone almost rivaled the satisfaction of slitting throats for the purpose of justice. Almost.

However, the next three days would not be too kind to dear Connor.

**+++++**

_Three Days Later_

His notoriety had blasted through the skyline ever since the night of December 16th, which had been dubbed by newspapers as, "The Boston Tea Party." ' _A party? Where do these people come up with these radical names? They are insane! This was no party. This was an act of retaliation._ ' One can assume that Connor still did not warm up to the printing press and the propaganda that spewed from that awful machine.

His deep cut frown and long white robes were memorized, detail by minute detail, by the red coat soldiers. Each turn of a corner led to a high speed chase across the city of Boston, muskets clacking and British slang bursting through the dingy air. With each throat slit with a quick slice of his razor sharp tomahawk, several more throats would appear. They were like _weeds_! When one was plucked, several more arose. Day three since the dumping of the tea, and Connor had managed to find himself in even more trouble after the victory.

On an early afternoon with a crisp chill in the air, the Native assassin could be found dashing down the middle of the marketplace. Where people once stared with befuddlement at the strange man in white, they were now accustomed to red coats chasing him down with muskets piercing the air. Some people had witnessed Connor's craftsmanship at carving a dozen or so of the British soldiers. Truthfully, the people of Boston did not object. Still, the occasional bloodbath was a bit much. Just a _bit_.

Connor dove into the nearest haystack after assassinating a pair of red coats with swift piercings of his hidden blade, penetrating the still beating hearts. A new group of red coats were close by, eager to tackle down the Native deviant. The leader of the group cackled as he witnessed Connor dive into a haystack.

"Too slow! Still see you!" the man in red shouted, licking his upper lip from the excitement of the chase.

Grinding his teeth, Connor leapt out of the haystack and onto the ground, his feet thrashing against the stone street as his upper body leaned forward to increase speed, his muscular arms pumping at his sides. Nearly knocking over a young couple about to share an intimate kiss, he turns a corner, where several redcoats quickly followed in suit. Finding himself in a shaded, backyard farm with animals and a vegetable garden, Connor prepares for another showdown, his legs widening as he squats in position. A fragile slave yelps with fright from his stance in the vegetable garden, escaping the scene as fast as his skinny legs could take him.

Before a bloody mess could commence in the middle of a chicken coop, a high pitched scream shattered the air, forcing all other frequencies of sound to cower.

The redcoats look around for the source, temporarily forgetting the task at hand. Connor merely shifts his eyes, locating the sound to come from the east.

The scream sounds off once again, this time accompanied by several more voices.

"Help! H-help, please! They've gone _mad_!"

A rather large riot had begun just outside the modest farm. The colonists were known to withhold aggression that could spark from even the slightest bit of oppression, taking action with their balled up fists and kicking leather shoes. The leader of the group turns around to face some of his men, commanding just a few of them to ease the situation. He ordered for them to be discrete about ceasing the riot. Just as the man turns back around from instructing his men, he comes to find his remaining men in a pool of blood, their chests and throats gaping with blood. Connor smirks at the man's paling face, the blood stained hidden blade from the sleeve of his glove glinting in the sunlight with crimson pride. Sputtering incoherent words, the man stumbles as he runs away from the scene.

Before Connor could depart, a distinct, high-pitched whistle sounds off, capturing his attention. Tracking the source easily, he sees the back of a woman in a narrow alleyway, a large black hat atop her head. She stood with her side against the brick wall of a building, her hip jutted to one side. With her hand, she motions with her index finger for him to follow her deeper into the crooks and crannies of the alleyway. Sneaky and whimsical, the march hare that she was. He hesitates for a moment before he sees that the woman turns her head to look over her shoulder, her close mouthed smile and blue eyes revealing her identity.

_'MaryLynn.'_

Quickly observing the area for safety, Connor then makes his way over to the woman who slowly began walking away. He quickens his pace to speak to her, his brows furrowed deeply.

"What are you doing here?" he says in a hushed voice, walking beside her.

She leads him to a quiet part of the alley, the busy streets of Boston just up ahead at the end of the narrow walkway.

"There is a riot just outside this alle-" he continues to speak, only to be interrupted by MaryLynn's light giggle.

"That was me, silly. _I_ started that riot. That scream was from my mouth to feign distress to distract the red coats. I've lived here all my life, so perhaps my knowing my way around these streets can be of use to you."

Without so much as a word or a glance, Connor turns away to leave.

"Unbelievable," she comments aloud at his brash action, throwing her hands in the air. "Not even a simple 'thank you' for helping you?"

"I did not _need_ or _ask_ for your help," he merely stated, his heavy footsteps refusing to stop.

The dismissal...it was what Surry had spoken of when mentioning Sam Adam's dealing with the Native assassin. He had not thanked the statesman for even one thing to help aid his mission. And yet, the older man had not declared a curt rejection of Connor. He still tolerated his dismissiveness and lack of gratitude, even considering the young man as one of his own men in the Sons of Liberty. What was so appalling about camaraderie in this fight for freedom?

And he had just dismissed MaryLynn so easily, as if they had never met before, as if she never helped him before.

She huffed, anger rising as her fists clenched at her sides. This was certainly not acceptable.

"You are selfish, you know that?" she speaks up, secretly surprised by her daring streak.

This worked wonders in stopping the Native assassin in his tracks. He quickly turned around to face her, a deep scowl tugging his lips. A part of her was relieved that the hood concealed his eyes. His scowl was intimidating, but his eyes were downright frightening. Nonetheless, she forced her nervous energy away. There was no way this man was going to make her squirm before him.

"I am fighting to grant these people freedom, and yet you claim I am _selfish_?" he retaliates, his large hand motioning between them.

"I am not speaking of this struggle for freedom! I am speaking of your arrogance over people who may share the same desire as you, yet you dismiss their aid completely."

He does not falter. His broad shoulders remained squared, his stance towering. She could see the bone of his jaw tense against his copper skin. How the hell would this woman know of his struggles? His people's struggles? She spoke such blasphemy. There was no time for pleasantries and get-to-know-you's! However, Connor's lack of movement suggested that he was listening to her.

The more his stare became intense, the more MaryLynn's anger sparked at how he looked down upon her, like a helpless kitten who could not catch the damn mouse. Who was he to declare her useless? This woman was not backing down. Not now.

Two people, two worlds, stood up against one another, claiming their purpose as " _the_ " purpose. It was a showdown of the prides: the pride of a man and the pride of a woman.

"Surry tells me that Sam doesn't mind you running off without so much as a thank you or an extension of friendship when working alongside you. He means you no harm, and considers you as an equal! Do as you wish with him, but don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance! Do you honestly think you're the only one hurting inside? Do you think you're the only one who is affected by this God awful time? Sam cares about you, and _so..do..I._ "

With grand steps forward, she eliminates the distance between herself and Connor, looking up into his shadowed eyes. Her own eyes were on the verge of crowning with tears. MaryLynn fought tooth and nail not to cry in front of him. She wasn't a child. She wasn't _useless_.

"Come down from your pedestal, you...you _brute_!" she shouts, her nails cutting into her palms as her fists tightened further.

She storms off, shoving the brim of her large black hat down over her eyes. Connor had no words to retaliate with, utter frustration bubbling in his stomach and up into his throat. All could he manage through his emotion was an aggressive inquiry.

"Where are you going!"

"None of your concern!" the blonde woman spat, picking up her dress and petticoat to grant her legs more leeway as she bustled away into the Boston streets.

She bit into her lip to refrain from crying in frustration. 'Do not cry in public-do not cry in public-do not cry in public,' was the mantra looping within her mind. Why did she bother to save him, only to see that he was not what she thought he was? Tempted to accept regret and hatred into her heart, she refused. She had saved him, both today and three years ago, and would do it again if given the chance. There was no room in her heart for hatred to feast away her humanity.

And yet, it hurt very much to be rejected by a potential friend.

He remained silent as he watched her disappear. He bows his head, a frown cutting into his face as the woman's words replayed in his mind. _"Come down from your pedestal, you...you brute!"_ He growls, grinding his teeth in frustration. _'That's not what I meant to say to you. You don't understand where I'm coming from. I didn't mean...Ugh!'_

"There he is!" called the once stammering red coat soldier from afar. "Get him before he escapes once more!"

**+++++**

Several days go by since the confrontation in the alleyway.

At the edge of a cliff side, tucked in the heart of the vast frontier sat the Native assassin, his legs crossed while his shoulders hunched forward. He stared at the murky lakes below, his absence of awareness giving way to his troubled recollections.

_"Why?!" a pale face painted with the man's own blood pleaded for an answer. "I was only doing as I was told!"_

_The expression of remorse across his recruit's once angry face had struck Connor. He had given Stephane the order to kill the taxman, only to find himself empty when the killing was not done by his own hands, but performed before his eyes._

_"End his suffering cleanly," was all Connor could say to Stephane, his head bowed low._

_He had to look away. He could not witness the Frenchman strike his butcher knife deeper into the man's weeping shoulder wound. The gurgle of blood from the man's throat made Connor nauseous to no end. The first pang of remorse to shatter his angry heart._

Why did this memory insist on pestering him? Connor had sought to ease the fury of Stephane Chapeau over suspected thievery in his home, only to later find himself telling the recruit to assassinate a taxman he thought was a direct source to William Johnson's power. The assassination did not leave Connor with satisfaction as he had expected. It left him feeling empty...feeling dirtied by watching this hysterical man die. To kill a man himself had numbed him to the very core. He was trained to be a reaper in white, an Assassin of the Brotherhood.

To watch a man being killed by another was a different story. He simply could not understand it. He was trained for three long years to become a ruthless killer! Why was this happening now? What had fueled his purpose had also began to betray his sanity.

This event had occurred a few days ago, yet it was still clear in his mind. The taxman working for Johnson was dead. Stephane executed the deed under Connor's order. It was done. And yet, the sight of a man dying, bleeding profusely as he pleaded for a reason why this misfortune had befallen him, still haunted the young man. The taxman was just another blind man under Johnson's thumb. And Connor, for the first time, felt remorse during this mission. What if the man could be persuaded to leave his position? What if he was only doing what he was told, an ignorant man with no direction?

Connor thought his mind would explode if his thoughts delved any deeper into the possibilities that will never be justified.

He did not blame Stephane at all, not even for a split second. The Frenchman was overfilled with anger, an anger that the young man knew all too well. And there he was, trying to calm down another man who shared that same incessant fury. It was not his hand that was stained with the taxman's blood, but the Frenchman's hand. However, it might as well have been Connor's hand with the butcher knife since the order to assassinate came from his lips alone.

Recruiting Stephane had somewhat alleviated him, however. The mission was not as stressful when there was another man present to exchange and execute plans with. Having visited Stephane earlier today in his tavern, Connor conversed with him over an ale or two. The will to live had flickered in Stephane's dark little eyes, despite having lost his wife and child to the British years ago. Connor opened his eyes, metaphorically, to the fact that he was not the only one with a tragic past. Demons lurk in just about any human being.

_"Come down from your pedestal, you...you brute!"_  
 _"..don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance."_

There came MaryLynn's words again.

 _"I am not arrogant. I am angry,"_ he whispered into the air in Mohawk as if he were answering back to the blonde woman.

The rest of his inner speech continued within the security of his mind's walls.

_'This is my fight, and I will not permit the chance for an ally, a friend, to die because of me. Maybe she had spoken a truth in her anger. Am I blind to others who seek justice just as I do? They shouldn't die because they are affiliated with me, but do I thieve them of seeking their own personal justice?'_

He growled aloud, pulling his hair in frustration. He heaved air in and out, trying to ease himself down.

 _'I owe MaryLynn an apology,'_ he thought. _'I just hope she'll accept my apology. She may share a painful past as well. She did nothing but aid me, and asked for nothing in return. Mother had taught me better than this.'_

Mother. _Ista_. The thought of his deceased mother infiltrated his mind.

_Her burning flesh._

_Her rotting bones._

_Her final words._

He shook his head as if to rid himself of the merciless trauma. Eyes stinging with potential tears, Connor bit into his lower lip, silently vowing to make his dear mother proud in the afterlife.

He sighed aloud, stifling his emotions the way he had usually done. He could not bear to fester with painful memories in fear of refusing to continue his mission, to live. Connor decided on visiting MaryLynn tonight in Boston, recalling the building she had pointed out on the night they had reunited. Once his head had cooled from the runaway thoughts, he felt a slight puff of hot air at his fingers. Looking down, Connor came to be acquainted with a small hare. The light brown puff with long ears had sniffed his fingers and leather glove, its nose crinkled with curiosity.

 _"Go home,"_ he said to the hare. _"I have no desire to hunt you right now."_

The hare, oddly enough, acceded as it ran off into the tall grass, long ears still visible as it dashed away.

_"I wish I could go home as well."_

**+++++**

Once night had fallen upon the dirty streets of Boston, the Native assassin had arrived at The Maverick. Hoping he had the correct residence picked out, Connor pulled open the large maroon door. The scent of jasmine perfume had overwhelmed his nostrils. The streets were an unpleasant, pungent smell altogether, but to mingle with the heavy floral scent was enough to make him nauseous.

Swallowing the nausea down, he made his way through a narrow hallway paneled with aged wood. Upon the walls hung frames of pressed blood roses and violet stalks. Despite being drained of water, the colors of the pressed flowers still possessed a vibrant hue. However, they were far from living. The roses and violets were like that of decorated corpses in a mortuary: put on display for the living to marvel at the imitation of life in death.

Dark eyes were drawn away from the framed flowers once Connor passed through a threshold into a large foyer. A few feet away stood a large, curvaceous woman with fire red curls pinned atop her head. Her back faced him as she looked up the staircase in front of her. She appeared to be vigilant, listening in on whatever she was listening for. Connor cleared his throat to gain her attention.

Turning around, the woman did not bat an eyelash at the towering man. Quite frankly, she looked him up and down before addressing him, a pencil thin eyebrow cocked at a high angle.

"Yea?" she said. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for MaryLynn. Does she live here?"

"She does. Do you 'ave an appoin'ment with her, sir?"

"No. She had granted me permission to visit her."

"Ha! I've heard tha' one before. I may be gettin' up in years, but I'm not stupid."

"I am only here to visit her per her request. Bring her here to prove my words."

"Are you bossin' me around, boy? Ay, I don' think so. I've seen those Wanted posters, no mistake there. And the bulk of weapons you 'ave concealed there don' help you either. I appreciate you helping' those rebels with those taxes, boy, but I'm in no way allowin' a dang'rous man near my girls."

"I was given permission by MaryLynn to visit her," Connor repeated himself, his patience leaving him. "Let me through."

"Try an' pass me, an' I'll filet you like haggis and serve you to hell hounds! Don' think I won' do it!"

And thus, Connor left with a scowl. The dead flowers bid him goodnight from their glass homes as his heavy footsteps passed by them. _'What is it about that old woman and disliking me? I have done nothing wrong!'_ He was given permission, and he did not threaten the sassy woman.

Shutting the door behind him with a heavy "thud," Connor looked up at the building before him. Two windows in front. He dashed to the left side of the building. Three windows on this side. Possibly two other windows in the back and three more on the right side. Connor discerned that MaryLynn was located in one of those rooms on the second floor. He knew she was not at the Green Dragon tavern. He had already looked before approaching The Maverick.

The scowl quickly curves into a smirk as he begins to scale the wall of the building. _'I win, old woman.'_

The first few windows revealed either a quiet room or a woman's shriek, strange animal-like noises coming to a silence. Despite being highly inexperienced, Connor was not a fool as to what these ecstatic noises indicated. He knew that there were men and women having sex in these rooms. No wonder that older woman was so protective. These women were part of her business. Connor was unsure of how to feel about a business such as this. However, he did not judge the profession, knowing that hard times called for desperate measures. Still, he wondered why a woman would sell herself. He deemed it to be none of his business, and did not know these women personally to even begin to discern what kind of people they were. Besides, he had never engaged in sexual intercourse.

The man was a virgin, pure and simple.

Scaling his way to the last three windows on the right side of The Maverick, he knocked on yet another window. A woman with black tousled hair, who was dressed in only her white linen pantaloons and bodice, had come to meet him at the window.

"Oh _my_!" she shouted. "You do know there's a door below, right?"

"Do you know where MaryLynn is?" he demanded, his questions never failing to sound like firm demands.

"Oh. _Her_ ," mumbled the dark haired woman, her green eyes rolling. "She is the second window from the right of this one."

Seizing the opportunity to gain a new client, the woman begins to twirl a lock of dark hair around her fingers as she admires Connor's bulky physique beneath his long white coat.

"You're that man that's been stopping the British taxmen around here. Would you like to come in and relax with me, darlin'?"

"No," he curtly dismisses the woman in a deadpan voice, working his way to the desired window.

"Damn that woman!" seethed the dark haired woman as she slammed the window panes shut. "Now she's got them climbing the damn building for her!"

Finally. She was to be in this room. Suddenly, he experienced slight nervousness. No matter. It was his duty to apologize to the blonde woman, and that was what he was going to do. He knocked on the window glass three times. The first two knocks were audible and confident, while the last knock was hesitant.

There was a faint glow of candlelight from inside the room. He saw MaryLynn look up from an open, leather bound book resting on her lap. Her eyes widened at the sight of the unexpected visitor at her window. Putting aside her book, she slowly rises from her bed, cautious in her footsteps. Opening the window panes towards her, MaryLynn looks at Connor with raised eyebrows.

" _Connor_? How did you..?"

She did not finish her question. It was obvious that he had scaled up the building. She shakes her head of the previous inquiry, her blonde curls bouncing about.

"Why are you here?" she decides to ask him an inquiry more suited for this impromptu situation.

He does not answer her immediately. His head turns away. Connor was accustomed to pulling his weight up cliffs and buildings alike, so hanging from the window sill was not an issue. It was beginning to formulate his apology that hindered the young man.

"You can come in, but you better have an explanation ready," MaryLynn states in a soft voice, stepping back to grant him space.

It was a risk she took to grant him entry into her bedroom. She knew of his slaughtering of the redcoats. It was not exactly done in a discrete manner. He was an expert with weapons, and these said weapons adorned his waist. Despite this, she knew that he would not harm her. He had no reason to.

Connor climbs into the bedroom, his eyes still avoiding the blue pair that sought him out. Standing up, he forces himself to look at the woman. There she stood, crossing her arms before her bosom and an eyebrow arched high. No, she did not forget their heated argument from several days ago. She was dressed in a white linen nightgown, the collar hanging over her bare right shoulder. Draped down her torso was an onyx beaded rosary, a silver crucifix glittering in the moonlight. The rosary had captured his eye, curious about the foreign jewelry winking up at him. Retracting his gaze from the rosary, the Native assassin opens his mouth, only to shut it with hesitance. This was much more difficult than just interrogating a man! Here, he was baffled.

"I am rather tired from my last client, and don't intend on standing up all night," MaryLynn states firmly, jutting out her hip with a hand placed upon it. "What is it?"

His mouth opens.

His mouth shuts.

He looks down at his hands.

He picks at his leather gloves.

He tries to open his mouth again, beginning to form a word...only to shut his mouth once more.

The blonde woman was losing her patience. What in God's name did he want? She sighed aloud, throwing her hands up in the air.

"If you insist on standing there, then I'm going to bed," she declares, hastily making her way to her rumpled bed. "Goodnig-"

"Sorry."

He finally speaks.

"Wh-what?" MaryLynn stutters, ceasing her footsteps to look at Connor intently.

Connor sighs aloud, his shoulders hunching forward as he looks the blonde woman in the eye.

"I am sorry...for my behavior from days ago."

"Oh, Connor. You came all the way up here just to apologize to me?"

He nods, retaining a meaningful gaze on her candlelit face. MaryLynn was touched. Beneath all that pride of his, the Native assassin meant well. This was an honorable act; a rather _odd_ act, considering he came through a damn window instead of a door; but an honorable one nonetheless.

Exhaling though her nostrils, she smiles up at Connor with raised eyebrows.

"Now, was that so hard to do?" she asked with a playful tone to her breathy voice.

His gaze leaves her face for his hands, his eyes further hidden beneath the pointed lip of his hood.

"Yes," he grumbles, biting the inside of his lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Yes...they ended up having a little tiff. No worries, it's out of their systems for now. So, they will get along from here.
> 
> Thank you to those who have left Kudos for this story thus far! :) However, there haven't been any reviews. Please read and review so that I know people are reading this story as I update. I'd greatly appreciate your feedback. 
> 
> As you can see, there will be skipping of moments in the actual game because I do not want to drag the story by writing out every sequence we all know and love from Assassin's Creed 3. My ADD cannot take that, ha ha.
> 
> Remember the number **1001** for the next chapter. ;)
> 
> Have a lovely week, everyone. Best wishes.
> 
> ~take care


	5. Never Asked for a Savior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 4: Never Asked for a Savior**
> 
> _I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick brothel._
> 
>   
> _Italics:_ Native tongue, retelling of tales, and memories

"Madame did not let you through, did she," MaryLynn suspected aloud, smiling at the idea of the burly Scottish woman tossing Connor over her shoulder like a rag doll.

"No, she did not. I had followed your instructions, and she did not believe me. She said I looked too dangerous to be near you and these women."

He bit the inside of his lip, looking away. The recollection of the older woman telling him that he was "too dangerous" rather insulted him. Looking at his attire and weaponry adorning his waist, Madame had written him off as a threat. Soldiers frequent this place, do they not? Had they not muskets and knives strapped to their bodies?

He meant no harm, and suggested nothing of the sort with his proper speech. The blonde woman noticed the irritated expression knitting his black eyebrows.

"She did not mean to insult you. Please understand, Madame has to be cautious concerning which clients are harmless and which could pose a threat. She didn't know that you weren't a client. Not all men mean well."

MaryLynn fiddled with the beads of her rosary as her eyelids became heavy. She muffled her thoughts, trying not to recall certain situations. It had been quite some time since she was assaulted and almost raped, but the memories never wiped clean from her mind.

"I'm sorry if you felt uncomfortable," she continued, looking to Connor.

Somehow, the softening of Connor's facial features had put her at ease from the little monsters dancing in her head. He could appear so stern and serious to people. And yet, when his jaw was not tense and his eyebrows were not tightly knit, the Native assassin was a sight to see. A pure, unadulterated air danced around his otherwise intimidating appearance. 'Such a paradox. What else does he hide?' MaryLynn pondered, releasing her hold on the rosary beads.

"It is fine," he assured her, his deep voice snapping the woman out of her mental stupor. "I think I understand why she must...Wait, you refer to her as 'Madame'?"

"Yes," she replied with a soft laugh, knowing where Connor was going with this all-too-common inquiry.

Connor hesitated with his following question, his plump lips remaining slightly parted. He was still rusty with some colonial customs and terms, and he despised feeling embarrassed over his ignorance. Scratching his cheek, he forced the words out of his mouth.

"Forgive my ignorance, but is that not a formal addressing of an older woman? What is her real name?"

"No one knows. She never reveals her real name to the girls, including myself, so we simply address her as 'Madame.' I understand, it sounds rather odd."

"Not at all. I think I understand why she does not reveal her name...and why she is overly protective of you and the other women that work here."

There. There it was. Time to face possible lectures and words of pity. MaryLynn never thought the Native assassin would actually accept the offer of visiting her! And yet, here he was; just as he said he would. It was not his opinion of her that would bother her. It was a possible lecture and a look of judgment that she was much too tired of dealing with, especially after dealing with a needy client a half hour ago.

"So, you know of my other profession," the blonde woman presumed, looking him dead in the eye.

Connor merely nods. The noises of ecstasy from the other windows; the eagerness of the dark haired woman for him to come into her bedroom; the rather harsh assessment from Madame; and the clandestine nature of the household in general alluded to what went on in this two-story building.

She sighed softly, fingering a bead or two of her rosary. Her next utterance sputtered out in one breath.

"Please, do not judge me, I know there are prejudices about this profession, but I am an honest woman and I must survive and I do not need your pity or judgments or-"

He interrupted her one-breath reasoning with a raise of his palm, signaling her to desist from her frantic explanation. She obeys, her lips sealing shut into a tight line.

"I do not judge you," Connor said slowly, intently.

The blonde woman nodded, now holding both the beads and the glittering silver crucifix in one hand for comfort. Up climbs the anxiety in her pounding little heart. Her eyes flicker to the tomahawk strapped to his side, swallowing hard.

"I know what you do…with those red coats, I mean. I have not seen you do it, but the noise of death tells me so."

The air suddenly became thick as it collected within their lungs, coiling around their throats. Should he tell her about the Brotherhood of Assassins? The Templars? No. No, he could not. It was not appropriate to share this information with her. Yes, she was a friend of his, but MaryLynn was safer if left in the dark about such things.

Connor had done what he had to on his mission, and was not about to stop anytime soon. It was his business to slash down Templar influences, to protect his people and their land from grasping, greedy hands. This woman's reaction would not change his chosen path, a solitary sort of path. However, he observed the blonde woman's anxious behavior. MaryLynn spoke of the facts regarding his "profession," if one could call it that, but she appeared to be uncomfortable actually speaking of them.

Her voice was barely audible, like a gentle summer wind, and her right hand fiddled with the rosary draped down her torso as it were her final lifeline in this world. _'Why does she touch that necklace so much?'_ Connor mused over the significance of the rosary. _'I wonder if it is a blessed object.'_

Unfortunately for Connor, he had mistaken her anxiety for fear of him when, in actuality, she was nervous in general.

He wondered if she feared being killed. He would never hurt a woman. _Ever_. He sighed aloud, feeling guilt over having made her feel uneasy. Before the Native assassin could allow the nipping subconscious mind to question him if MaryLynn's opinion would affect him, she spoke up.

"I do not judge you either, nor am I afraid of you."

Connor released a strained breath through his nostrils, watching the woman intently. Although they lead different roles in life, they were both considered unconventional. Neither person would consider chatter over sex and death to be casual chatter! Perhaps Connor was overthinking her body language. It was different from the body language he was accustomed to studying whilst in battle.

"I want to propose something," MaryLynn announced calmly, her fingers leaving the glossy texture of the rosary beads for good.

The Native assassin nodded as he crossed his arms, his solid gaze alerting her that he was listening. MaryLynn was not ashamed of how she earned a living, but she still worried over losing a friend due to negative judgments. Connor did not seem to care. He was still here, was he not? She did not bother fretting over his interest in her services. Being a woman with experience in dealing with men of all types, MaryLynn could tell right away that Connor was untouched, and far too uncomfortable to reach out and touch her. Somehow, the blonde woman found this quality of his attractive. 'An untouched, beautiful man. Quite lovely. I would never take that away from him. It is too precious.'

"Let us not speak of our...line of work," the blonde woman continued. "I presume neither one of us wants to, and neither one of us should have to. We keep our secrets, yes?"

"I-I suppose so," he sputtered, his crossed arms beginning to come undone.

Slowly removing his white hood, Connor revealed his entire face before speaking to her in a promising tone. Even though he had heard this woman claim that she was unafraid of him, Connor wanted to make his good intentions clear to her. His acute hearing sensed the blonde woman's breath ceasing. Was she nervous? Did she judge his appearance?

No. Not in the least bit. The sweetly oblivious man just did not recognize when a woman found him attractive. It was the freckles embedded into his copper skin and the deep set dark eyes that seemed to capture MaryLynn.

"Please know this," Connor began, his tone softening now that his entire face, his identity, was revealed to her. "I will not harm you, nor will I ever."

"I know that."

"Do you truly?"

His eyes were sincere in their dark brown color, his brows framing them heavily. Copper skin illuminated with gold sheen from the candlelight. Looking at his softened features, she noticed a narrow braid brushing along his left cheek and jaw, green and yellow beads adorning the braid. She had never seen such a fashion on a man, and found herself fancying the thin braid. Secretly, MaryLynn wanted to finger the smooth braid, wondering how soft his hair was.

She chuckled softly to herself, knowing that she was only looking at the braid to distract herself from Connor's inquiry. 'My, my, I must stop acting like a young girl! He is so _oblivious_ , it tickles me to no end!'

"I do. It's just that the thought of blood makes me uncomfortable. _Very_ uncomfortable."

"I have been trained to deal with blood. I do not blame you for not wanting to see such things."

"Thank you for your words. I hope your night serves you well."

MaryLynn makes her way to her unmade bed, climbing into the sheets that would cool her aching back and pelvis from her sessions earlier tonight. She picked up the book that she had tossed aside on Connor's unexpected visit. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, Connor makes his way to the open window, about to depart. He turns his head to look at the woman once more before the book's title had thieved him of his intention on leaving.

" **A Thousand and One Nights** ," he mumbled to himself, his brain flickering wildly with recognition over the title etched in gold lettering.

He recalled the words MaryLynn had said to him on the night of their reunion.

_"You look like you have a thousand and one tales to tell me."_

"So that is what you meant!" Connor's voice raised in volume, his eyes widened.

"Pardon me?"

"You had told me on the night we spoke at the tavern that I appeared to have 'a thousand and one tales' to tell you. I did not understand this at the time, and yet here is the answer before me: the book you are reading."

She flushes at the cheeks, looking away as she placed a hand on the book's leather visage.

"I said that to you?" she questioned, peeking up at him through lowered black eyelashes.

"Yes, you did," he stepped forward, so pleased over simple things.

" _Oh my_ , I cannot remember much these days! Um, yes, this book is the culprit of that silly phrase I told you. It's called, ' **A Thousand and One Nights: The Arabian Nights Entertainments**.' It's one of my favorites. Sadly, I only possess a couple of volumes of the collection."

The blonde woman seemed bashful all of a sudden as she buried her face in the book. Her wide blue eyes began to peek over the edge of the book to look up at Connor, who stood there with a curious expression on his face.

"What is this book about?" he questioned, eager to know more.

During his three years of training with Achilles, he was required to read dozens of books on combat techniques, the history between the Assassins and the Templars, and the potpourri of philosophy shared across the world. Sometimes, if Connor had done well with his tasks, the former master assassin would permit the young man to take pleasure in fictional books. Truth be told, Connor loved tucking himself away in the treetops, holding captive a book or two to read. He failed to hide the small, subtle smile on his lips.

"Well, it is hard to say," began MaryLynn, looking up to the ceiling in thought. "There is a main plot written with miniature plots woven in. The main story consists of an angry sultan, King Shahryar, who executes each new wife after one night alone with her. He does this before she is able to betray him with another man. However, he is a paranoid man, imaging such scenarios. His latest wife, Scheherazade, is a clever young woman who is the daughter of his royal advisor, the Vizier. She recounts tales each night they are together to postpone her execution. These tales are fantastical with all sorts of characters and lessons learned, even magical beings who grant wishes! O-oh, I'm sorry. I'm rambling on and probably bor-"

"No," Connor interjected, his eyebrows raised. "I am curious to know more about these tales, and why this king feels the need to kill his spouses. What reason does he have to dishonor these women?"

She cocks an eyebrow, amused by the emotions peaking through his usually stolid face.

"I could read it to you, if you are that curious," she says with mischief twinkling in her eyes, a playful idea dancing around in her mind like a small child.

Connor became bashful, picking at his gloves as he peered down at the book in her lap.

"I would not want you to return to the beginning of the book if you have already progressed."

"It's no trouble! I don't have many friends to speak about these tales with. The gentleman that gave this book to me a couple of years ago...Well, I promised not to reveal his name. Reputation and all. Anyway, his visits with me did not last long, but he gave me these books. I spent some time with him after my services. He was just so knowledgeable that I wanted to listen to him speak for days and days on end. Luckily, this man was amused by my incessant curiosity, so he humored me with personal stories and books. He was a bespectacled man of many talents. He was rather gentle with me, too." **

While MaryLynn meant that the older gentleman was mindful in touching a woman, the Native assassin thought that "gentle" referred to the man's manners. _'It's nice to know that she had known at least one nice man in her profession.'_

"I expressed an interest in reading about the foreign cultures and lands far away from here that he would tell me about. So, he gave me this English translation of this book of Arabian folktales."

"What happened to this man?"

"He had business to attend to in Philadelphia," MaryLynn said in a quiet voice, forcing a smile to chase away the sadness that lingered in her eyes.

The Native assassin listened intently, leaning his back against the wood paneled wall. He felt his heart warm slightly over learning about her love of different cultures and far away lands. If he ever spoke of his own customs and village folktales, would the blonde woman be as excited as she was over these Arabian tales? _'I hope so. It would be nice to feel accepted.'_

MaryLynn could not stifle a warm smile gracing her lips. He did not speak of disapproval over a woman reading and educating herself. This man was worth having as a friend in her life, and she intended on keeping him.

"Thank you, Connor."

"For what?"

"Your words were all I ever wanted to hear. This is a discrete business, and people look down on women in my line of work. Women are looked down upon when wanting to educate themselves, too. I speak my mind, and although you may not agree with me, you do not berate me. I may be breaking many social rules, but I am surviving. I'm not someone's wife. I'm not someone's mother. I'm not even someone's child."

The last line had pierced Connor's heart. He was no one's child either. Connor lowered his head, remaining quiet.

"However," continued the blonde woman, "this gives me freedom in my own right. I answer to no one. I thank you for listening without judgment."

He nodded his head in understanding as he quietly said, "I am showing the respect I know I would want."

"Would you still like me to read you the beginning of this book?"

"Yes," Connor immediately answered, his upper body leaning forward from the wall like a wooden puppet brought to life with a tug of his strings.

She scoots over on her bed to grant him space to sit. He doesn't feel comfortable sitting next to a woman on her bed, so he locates a nearby chair to sit in. Before easing himself down, he checked the sturdiness of the chair with the tip of his moccasin. Even years after breaking Achilles' old chairs in that ancient home of his, Connor was still concerned over breaking furniture in someone's residence. MaryLynn found his behavior peculiar, a shapely eyebrow cocked upon her heart-shaped face. Connor sat down, only to cross his muscular arms before his chest. He was several feet away from the bed where MaryLynn sat.

"Why do you sit all the way over there?" she questioned with a soft giggle lacing the inquiry. "I am not going to touch you or anything."

"I am comfortable here," he stubbornly affirmed, jutting out his lips in a pout.

The blonde woman shook her head as her eyebrows rise up. 'Such an odd man.' She opened the maroon leather bound book, turning the pages back to the very beginning.

_"The king was devastated to hear that the wife of his brother was unfaithful. How could this be? Why would a queen do such a thing as betray her king? He sympathized with his brother greatly. It seemed fate had a cruel sense of humor, for the king had discovered his own queen bedding another man not too long far hearing of his brother's marital woes. Fueled with betrayal and rage, the king has his queen executed the next day, so that she would never betray him ever again. After the gruesome event, the king embarked on a sequence of marrying virgin and virgin, shortly executing these women before they had the chance to betray him._

_"Stressed over his king's daily executions, the vizier, his royal advisor, had done everything in his power to arrange for a decent woman to be the king's loyal, pure wife. He had done everything, except offer his own daughter. The young woman stood up to offer herself. The vizier, her father, had pleaded and begged for his only daughter to desist from her risky decision. She eased his tensions, assuring him that she had tricks in store for the ruthless king."_

Connor's crossed arms had come undone.

_"And so, on their first night together, the king withheld a stoic expression, expecting to waste his time with yet another virgin. The young woman would smirk at his proud demeanor. She offers him a tale to spend the time. He acceded, his frown easing just a tad."_

His shoulders began to relax, hunching forward in his seat.

_"To his surprise, the king had followed her every word, his eyes growing wider and wider with intrigue. As the hours passed, the beast within the king had been lulled into a childish glee, eager to mow what was to become of the heroes and villains alike. The next morning, to her relief, she was not executed. In return, she promised another tale for each night she spent with the king."_

His elbows had rested upon his knees as his chin was placed in his palms. His dark eyes are widened.

Every gesture and change of voice that she exhibited with each new character throughout the reading had entertained him greatly. He wanted to hear more and more. She _became_ each character she read about, almost taking on their personas with soft voices, low voices, varying facial expressions. MaryLynn looked to him occasionally, seeing his once stiff body lean over to listen intently. She smiled to herself, her eyes looking up from heavy hooded eyelids. The boy she had met years ago still existed inside this grim man.

_"And from then, she told the king marvelous stories for a thousand and one nights."_

Blue eyes flicker to the man who once bore a stolid face, only to be reverted back to an enthusiastic child.

"Still interested in a tale or two, Connor?"

**+++++**

Between missions (both liberty missions and naval missions) and business at the Davenport Homestead, Connor would visit the blonde woman a couple of nights a week for more Arabian tales.

His body language had begun to change, little by little, as his enthusiasm for the woman's recounting of the stories grew.

After two weeks, the chair had inched closer to where MaryLynn sat upon the bed. Another two weeks, and it inched even closer. By week six, he was comfortable enough to sit atop the bed beside her, retaining a respectful distance from her body. Connor would sit up against the headboard, his legs hanging over the bed's edge as to not dirty the bedsheets with his worn out moccasins. His long white coat, his assembly of weapons, and his moccasin leggings would hang over the old chair shortly after his arrival. The musky scent of the frontier was both potent and lovely. MaryLynn could almost picture herself running throughout the woods whenever she smelled that musky scent of his.

On this night, Marylynn was about to begin the tale, 'The Third Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor.' Connor was bewildered over the story-within-a-story format, so he ceased her telling of the next tale with his eager questioning.

"Why does the woman start a new tale each night? It is clear that she will not be executed. Why not tell just one tale and claim her rights?"

"Well, you see, the sultan was known to execute his wives sporadically. You remember this impulsiveness of his, don't you?"

Connor nodded.

"The woman is more than aware of this. So, to be extra cautious, she devises a new story within a story each night so that the tale lasts longer, therefore her life lasts longer. This can be considered trickery, but I happen to see it as quick wit and survival."

"I feel sorry for this woman. She should not have to be married to a man who does not respect her time. He is not an honorable man."

"I understand what you are saying. She deserves much more, and he is a coward. However, there are reasons why he is the way he is."

"No reason would ever justify his actions. I do not care that he was not the actual person to behead these wives. The blood still stains his hands."

"True, but listen first before you speak. He is afraid that he will be betrayed once again by a woman. His actions are overzealous and unforgivable, yes, I agree with you. They are all done in fear. The pain of betrayal would simply kill him. Tales such as these are exaggerated to teach a lesson. He kills women before they can kill his heart."

"Of course. My people have their own tales to instill morals. However, he frustrates me very much. I do not know why. He does not learn. He remains the same, yet these people in the tales are the ones who gain wisdom."

She laughed softly. If she didn't know any better, MaryLynn saw the similarities between Shahryar and Connor. Fear of betrayal. The immediate dismissal of those who pose a threat. He killed possible bonds without hesitation rather than killing the person as did the sultan. However, he did not kill this bond that he shared with her. He did not dismiss her, just as Shahryar did not dismiss Scheherazade. The blonde woman tucked away this observation in the back of her mind.

"My goodness, you despise the king very much! Answer me this question: why do you return to my bedroom for more tales if he bothers you?"

The Native assassin shrugged his shoulders. He selected his words carefully before speaking. It takes him a few minutes to answer, MaryLynn patiently waiting with her hands splayed atop the yellowing pages.

"Because I hope to see him change," he admitted quietly as he looked down at his large hands.

"I hope so too," she agreed with a gentle sigh, not wanting to give away the ending.

She then started to recount 'The Third Voyage of Sinbad,' resisting the urge to pick Connor's brain for more of his thoughts and questions.

_"The call of the deep sea was made undeniable by Sinbad's restless need for adventure. Sailing out into the unknown, he and his crew found themselves in an unfortunate predicament when cast on an island. As ill fate would have it, a beast with eyes like coals of fire and teeth like a boar's husks captures the crew, eating them one by one. The captain was the first of the men to be devoured, being the fattest of them all. With no time to spare over fear, Sinbad had to strike down the beast before any more of his crew suffered a terrible death. He felt it was duty to rescue these unfortunate souls. And so, intending to blind the beast with two red-hot iron spits, Sinbad ran towards the hideous beast with a battle cry, not a single care for his possible demise."_

**+++++**

_Two Weeks Later_

_February 1774_

Her back collided against the wall as they engaged in a heated kiss. Her fingers slid through his loose dark hair as she leaned her head back, granting his traveling kisses more access to her neck. A shapely leg wrapped around his calf, her heel rubbing up and down the muscle. Her soprano moan enchanted his ears, evoking a flicker of wildfire in his groin.

 _Ohh_. She could feel his manhood swell against her thigh. She whispered empty encouragement in between kisses, her lips nipping at his jaw now and then.

'Here we go again,' thought the blonde woman.

This was nothing new from the usual performances. This man was just another nameless client looking for the sultry vixen to make him scream for the night.

The rough kisses soon lead to the ripping away of clothing, falling to the ground like pooling puddles in a rainstorm. She pulled him to the bed by his thick wrist, her plump bottom bouncing on the mattress as the man climbed atop her pale body. The next ten minutes were a blur.

Count five seconds.

Fake a moan.

Count another five seconds.

Fake another moan.

Whisper a perverted utterance.

Moan once more before beginning a consistent rhythm of loud breathing.

It was all a lie, her performance. The man would never know, though.

Growing tired and rather irritated by the man's incessant humping, the blonde woman presented the finale in what she deemed to resemble a "mind-shattering" orgasm cry. He ended up pulling out of her wet entrance to climax onto her stomach. Great. More mess to clean up. Bidding the man goodbye in a breathy, feminine voice, she closed the door, sighing aloud. The payment was safe with Madame, and she would receive her dues tomorrow morning. Carefully removing the sponge from her vaginal canal, she disposed of the used contraceptive quickly, glad to be rid of the thing. It was rammed flat up against her cervix, and the feeling was damn painful!

MaryLynn did not want to perform sex anymore tonight. Sometimes, in the middle of a session, she would be too tired, too worn out to carry on. However, she had to. The show must go on. Luckily, her clients were egotistical enough to be satisfied by hearing a prostitute climax before him. This trickery served her well, but her body had had enough. Little did they know, she faked her orgasms, perfecting the body shivers and the gasps for air. She mastered the whispered encouragements, the flying of golden hair over her face, the parted lips in the shape of an "O." It was all an act, and they'd never know. Truth be told, MaryLynn Mortenson had not had a true blue, genuine orgasm by a man in years. By this point, she had entertained the possibility that she would never experience an orgasm by a man ever again. Only her slender fingers would give her the release she needed from time to time, and this was deemed satisfactory enough.

The act of kissing she did not mind. Enveloping bruised lips. Tongues flicking playfully. Nips at the neck. Sometimes, this was very much enjoyable. Other times, MaryLynn compared the kissing techniques of some of her clients to that of a slobbering dog. Nasty. Greedy. Just sloppy, plain and simple. It was the business unfortunately: you please the client, not the other way around.

Slowly making her way to the copper basin, the blonde woman grabbed a nearby rag and a bar of soap with a slim rope attached from her vanity desk. The water would be tepid by now, having been left to sit for quite a while. However, it would have to do. 'Anything to wash off this sticky mess. Honestly, why do men feel the need to squirt their juices onto me? I am not a tree to be marked! Animals, they are!' She sighed aloud in frustration as kneeled before the basin.

She dipped the rag into the water, rubbing the bar of soap into the fabric to create a thick foam. Once she began rubbing the rag over her stomach, ridding herself of the sticky substance, she moaned sweetly at the comfort of the touch. It was the simplest of things that made MaryLynn forget for just a moment how hard the nights were on her body and mind.

Dipping the rag in the basin once more, she dragged it over her thighs and around her womanhood. She had already removed the sponge from her vaginal canal and disposed of it, so the tepid water and foaming bubbles were welcomed. A hum left her lips, taking pleasure in the intimate moment where she could pamper herself.

Not a moment too soon, Connor arrived at the window, finding himself watching the blonde woman bathe. He quickly adjusted his position. From the tip of his head to his shoulders, he was visible in the window glass. Thankfully, MaryLynn's back had been facing him, so she did not see him watching. _'No,'_ he silently scolded himself. _'I should leave. She is not dressed. This is wrong of me to...watch...'_

He could not deny what his body had communicated beneath his suddenly heated clothes, feeling much too warm. Connor was aroused by the smooth curve of her tiny waist, shooting out into wide, full hips. Her supple, pale skin glistened like translucent pearls, thin streams of water falling down the dramatic dip of her lower back. Connor swallowed hard, his manhood beginning to further swell to an aching point.

He quickly took to the roof, overwhelmed by his body's reaction. He felt as if he had betrayed MaryLynn by being aroused by her body. She was a friend, a _kind_ friend, and she did not extend her services to him. However, he was still a man with needs, a virginal man fascinated by the blonde woman's natural lure and sensuality. He forced his thoughts to dwell on images of bloodied corpses and the portraits of the Templars he had intended to kill. After ten minutes of this grueling process, his arousal had eased down, though a remnant of the ache was still present. He would have to take care of that himself later on.

Carefully, Connor scaled down the building, back to MaryLynn's bedroom window. He was relieved to find that she was dressed in her linen shift, her onyx beaded rosary thrown around her neck. Hesitantly, he knocked on her window with the back of his knuckles, praying to the spirits that his manhood would not give him away.

The blonde woman looked up and smiled at her nightly visitor at the window. Her footsteps were strained, but she managed to work through the ache in her pelvis and lower stomach without a flinch.

"Oh hello, Connor," she sounded chipper, masking her depleted energy as she granted him entry. "You came at a good time."

Her slow movements did not escape the Native assassin's alert senses. She was tired. Very tired. The swollen flesh under her eyes had also given away her physical state, the violet shadows framing her freshwater blue eyes. And yet, why did she force herself to spend time with him? Didn't she wish to sleep the night away and move on to the next day? How many men did she entertain tonight? _**'Enough!'**_ Connor forced his questions away. _'No talk of business. She speaks for herself. And yet...she's clearly tired. I don't know if..'_

"I do not want to disturb you if you are tired," a semblance of his thoughts came to life through his words. "I can return another night if you wish."

"Nonsense. You have been coming here for how long now? And have I turned you away even once?"

He shook his head, "No."

"There is your answer," MaryLynn sighed softly, carefully strolling over to her bed as Connor removed his long coat and collection of weaponry.

"In all honesty, your company is a lovely ending to my day. You have no clue."

The Native assassin was not sure how to respond to her confession, busying himself with the unstrapping of his moccasin leggings and leather pouches. He scratched at the navy blue breeches, shooing away a dull ache with his fingernails.

"My mind fails me tonight," says MaryLynn, tucking herself beneath the sheets as she retrieved the leather bound book from her nightstand. "Which voyage of Sinbad are we on?"

"The seventh one," he recalled immediately, having developed a liking for the sailor.

"Ah ha. The final one."

Connor was left in his white military shirt, navy blue breeches, and worn out moccasins. His hair always remained partially tied back, the bottom layer of his shoulder length hair whisping the back of his neck. Making his way over to the bed, he sat down, his legs swung over the side. The pillows felt pleasantly cool against his back, a light groan reverberating in his throat.

"Long day?" MaryLynn asks, her lips stretching into a sympathetic expression.

"You could say that," he responded, blinking his eyes to chase away the strain. "You look as if you have had a long day as well."

"Do I look that bad?" the blonde woman chuckled, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

"You do not look bad at all," he sputtered, becoming nervous. "I did not intend to insult you."

"No, no, I am not insulted. I just speed through my days and don't even realize how tired I am. Anyway, let me find the right page...Ah ha, here we are."

Bending her knees to prop up the book against her thighs, she began to read 'The Final Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor' as Connor eagerly awaited. In the corner of her eye, MaryLynn could see him leaning his head towards her to see the illustrations a little bit better. 'I thought he hated to be touched, no less being this close to a person. Well, I guess if he isn't fretting, it's fine.'

_"In need of his youthful spirit, Haroun al-Rashad requested for Sinbad to carry a gift to the king of Serendib. Infamous for his thirst for adventure, for purpose, Sinbad was deemed the perfect man to execute the task. Alas, after all the hardships of loss and death, the Sailor had become weary. Apologetic, with the flames of his passion flickering out in his eyes, Sinbad responds with, 'By Allah the Omnipotent, O my Lord, I have taken a loathing to wayfare, and when I hear the words, 'voyage' and 'travel,' my limbs tremble.'"_

As the tale progressed, coming to an emotionally relieving end, Connor found himself with mixed emotions. He wondered if his own missions against the Templars would be written down. Perhaps not written in letters of gold, like that of Sinbad's voyages in the tale, but nonetheless written down. It was an interesting thought, but this journey was not to be done in glory. It was to be done with passion. The ones who _live_ history are the ones who _make_ history.

"He was looking for something on these voyages," Connor contemplated aloud. "And yet, his hands remain empty. Does he find what it is he was looking for? Is he satisfied?"

Worry knit his brows and downturned the corners of his lips. No, he was not slaying mythical monsters and seeking gold, but the thought of a man looking for purpose only to find nothing...it was _unsettling_. Connor's weary mind would not grant him permission to contemplate such things. Besides, it was just a tale to teach lessons. Nothing more.

MaryLynn smiled sadly at the Native assassin, wishing she knew more of his days in order to give him the proper comfort. She hummed to herself, patting the yellowing pages with an open palm.

"That is for you to decide, Connor. Some people would be satisfied with this ending. His tales were shared in letters of gold. Whether he would be satisfied by this or not is up to the reader. Others would not be satisfied. It depends on what you seek in life and what it takes to satisfy you."

 _'She sounds like Clan Mother. Cryptic messages,'_ Connor mused, shaking his head. Not wishing to dwell on the ending of the tale, he decides to share a piece of his life, an uncharacteristic action indeed.

"Sinbad's voyages sound like my own on the sea."

"You've sailed the seas?" the blonde woman gasped, filled with glee. "Why didn't you tell me before, you silly man!"

He shrugged his shoulders bashfully.

"You have never asked me."

"Tell me a story, Connor. Please?"

"A story?"

He was caught off guard, but Connor managed to assuage his hesitance.

"Well...I embarked on a naval mission not too long ago."

"Did you? What did you do? Are you the captain?"

He seemed to fancy the title. _Captain_. With a twitch of his lips, a lopsided smile made an appearance on his distinguished face.

"Yes. However, I captain the ship alongside another man, my first mate, who bears far more experience than I."

"What is his name?"

"William Faulker. He is an older man who has seen very much in life. He drinks too much, though. Promise me you will not become a drunk."

"Oh, Connor. Don't worry about me. I drink enough for myself. Now tell me, what was this last naval mission like?"

"It was...I do not know which English word to use to describe the feeling. I-I apologize. It is my second language."

"No need to apologize. You know more languages than I do. I sound so boring sometimes! What about the word, 'thrilling'?"

His lips twitched into another small smile.

"Yes."

"What is your crew like?"

"Dutiful. Rowdy, but they are good men nonetheless."

She noted that Connor was a very introverted man, not one to tell stories about himself. MaryLynn presented her questions with a soft voice, her eyelids drooping in a dreamy expression. This gentle approach seemed to warm up Connor's social discomfort.

"Have you taken down ships? Are the cannons loud?"

"Yes, we have taken down ships. The explosions are 'thrilling,' as you say."

"I bet! The cannon fire blinding your sight, the explosion deafening you, the hard winds crashing against you. Connor, you truly are Sinbad, huh?"

This woman bore the enthusiasm of a child. Connor was befuddled by the two faces that MaryLynn seemed to bear. Amongst the rowdy men in the tavern, she was a curvaceous siren with puckering lips and a voice sultry enough to pull men in close like helpless puppets with gaping mouths. With him, she was wide-eyed, even shy. She welcomed him every time he visited, and always gave him a warm smile. Do not mistaken, her feminine allure did not falter when she was herself with Connor. If anything, Connor found the blonde woman precious when she spoke to him in a coy, breathy voice. The innocence she still possessed despite her wild nights was mind boggling to him. He fancied this version of MaryLynn better than the vixen. Plus, she only seemed to reveal this side of her to Connor. He enjoyed not sharing her with other men who he deemed undeserving. This woman was his pleasant little secret.

What was she like with her clients? The Native assassin did not wish to know. He did not wish to know what kind of men touched her. The thought bothered him. Was Connor jealous? He was not sure. All he knew was that these men had the chance to hurt her. It was not his business what happened in this bedroom, but he wanted to make it his business that this woman was not hurt.

"Are you satisfied here?" he questioned, no longer able to remain quiet about his thoughts.

MaryLynn looks away with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Are you?" he attempts at the question again.

Her body thieved the reins of her control, taking her out of bed and to the vanity desk where her looking glass and trinkets resided.

She sat before a small oak wood desk, shabby with age and in need of a good polishing. Staring into a wooden framed looking glass, she brushed her fair colored hair with her fingers, trying to tame the short waves. A sensitive nerve had been plucked, and her emotions threatened to shut her down. The blonde woman had moved away from Connor as if to move away from his questioning. If she was distant, she wouldn't have to give an answer.

He knew he was crossing a line. He knew that it was none of his business what she did and did not do with her life. However, he could not desist from caring about her well-being. The thought of this kind woman giving herself to men who did not deserve her attention had bothered Connor very much. Even if it all was done for survival…she still deserved _more_.

"Why do you remain here? You deserve more than what you receive."

"It's what I know, Connor," she retaliates, peering down at her looking glass with a morbid expression, the hardships of her youth prancing like demons in the glass. "I make the best out of it to survive. I've told you this."

"But you can leave, can you not?"

"Connor, please stop."

He did not listen. If Connor could bring people in need to the homestead community where he lived with Achilles, then maybe...just maybe she could live there, too. She would be well fed, clothed, happy, and even tell him stories when he returned from the day's duties.

"I live in a small community not too far from here. There is more than enough room for you, and you would not have to serve anyone but yourself. If you leave, you know that I will take you there the moment you tell me to."

She bit back her angry tears. MaryLynn had already accepted her fate for the past decade. She was assaulted, labeled impure and unwanted, even told by her own mother that she was born out of sin. Why was this man insisting that she change her life when she finally settled her path, satisfied enough? Just for his comfort? For his pity for her? She did not want nor ask for his damn pity.

More change. He made it sound so simple. MaryLynn found a routine to stay off the streets and live her life in her own way. Who was he to tell her to change her lifestyle?

"You're sweet. Really," her voice was bitter, her eyes fixed on her melancholy facial features in the looking glass. "But I am not asking you to save me. Some people don't want to be saved. I am getting along just fine and have made peace. I thank you for caring, but please, let me make my own decisions such as this when I am willing and ready."

'Stop giving me hope! I have accepted my fate. Leave me be, you pestering man! It's not as simple and romantic as you think it is!' The blonde woman managed to ride a wave of panic by steadying her breathing. Her eyes closed as her hand was placed on her heart. Fetching the flask from her vanity desk, she unscrews the lid to savor a loud gulp of whiskey. With anxiety stepping aside, anger began to fester beneath the surface as memories of her struggles to gain freedom in her profession arose. The filthy men. The loss of friends to jealousy. The lack of a home. She finally perfected this clandestine life, and no one, no "hero," was going to tell her what to do.

"Why are you upset?" he questioned her, noticing the tightening of her lips and lack of eye contact.

She demanded a moment to calm down. Her breathing rhythm was broken. The blonde woman couldn't spit out her angry thoughts at him. It frustrated her why she could not do so. MaryLynn had no trouble scolding him in the alleyway all those weeks ago. Why hesitate now? Did Connor's proposal tug at least one heart string?

A gasp here. A choke there. Another gasp, this one louder than the first. 'Not tonight. NOT tonight.' She drinks down the whiskey, her gulps audible.

Ok...Ok…

The anxiety was shooed away, for now.

"Demanding change from me is unsettling when I do not plan it. Please, let me handle _my_ life in _my_ way and when I am ready. Don't you dare pity me!"

"But-"

"Just stop!"

Connor was silenced by her outburst. She turned away, her short blonde waves bouncing with the motion.

"Fine," he huffed, disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm for his offer. "Should you change your mind, when the time comes...you tell me."

He began to dress himself in his outer attire, planning to leave. He figured that MaryLynn did not want him in her presence any longer. He had upset her when all he wanted to do was to help her. Perhaps it was not what she wanted right now. Perhaps she wasn't ready to be forced out of her lifestyle. It sounded all too familiar.

Flipping up the white hood over his head, the Native assassin looked to her once more before departing through the open window.

"You remind me of the woman from the Arabian book," he said, his voice deep and calculating. "You offer so much, just to survive. And yet, you ask for nothing in return but your freedom. If you possessed the chance to alter your life, such as that Aladdin man had done, what would you desire?"

Silence mets his ears. MaryLynn's body did not move from the vanity desk. Connor sighs aloud, pulling open the window panes. Before he could step onto the edge, he heard a soft voice make itself known.

"To return to King's Chapel," whispered MaryLynn. "I haven't been there in so long."

The blonde woman's body remained idle, sitting at the desk as she stared into the dead reflection of her color-drained face in the looking glass. She was done with him for tonight, her breathing having returned to a normal pace and her emotions wearing thin. He withholds a gaze of MaryLynn's body one last time.

 _'Why doesn't she want to be saved? I don't understand it! It's not hard to leave this place; there is nothing of value here for her. She doesn't truly thrive here. She is not satisfied.'_ It killed him inside to hear that the blonde woman would not leave with him for a better life. However, he knew very well that nature had to take its course when the time was right. The spirits would move her, not he. And he knew this. Still...he wish he could give her something worth giving.

_'I must ask Sam where King's Chapel is.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **: The man that MaryLynn refers to is Benjamin Franklin, who was known to fancy prostitutes, especially if they were French. I can see him as an older gentleman type that ML would warm up to. He would educate her and tell her stories, charmed by her femininity.
> 
> ++: Actual line from "The Final Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor." There are different versions of this ending, but I felt that this ending served the chapter well.
> 
>  _Please note:_ The chosen tales in this chapter were paraphrased. I did not want to copy word-for-word the chosen tales, so bear with me. In the 1700's, there were actually different versions of this collection of tales, boycotted in different languages. 
> 
> Thank you for the feedback, kudos, and hits! :) Much love to you. 
> 
> ~take care

**Author's Note:**

>  **Rated Explicit:** graphic violence, language, rape scene, sexual themes, and future sex scenes.


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